HE  WAVE 


ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 


1 


THE  WAVE 


THE    WAVE 

An  Egyptian  Aftermath 


By 

Algernon  Blackwood 

Author  of 

"Ten  Minute  Stories,"  "Julius  LeVallon" 
"The  Centaur"  "John  Silence," 
"A  Prisoner  in  Fairyland"  etc. 


New  York 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 
681  Fifth  Avenue 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 

BY 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

M.  S.-K. 

EGYPT'S  FORGETFUL  AND  UNWILLING  CHILD 


PART  I 


THE  WAVE 


CHAPTER  I 

SINCE  childhood  days  he  had  been  haunted  by  a 
Wave. 

It  appeared  with  the  very  dawn  of  thought,  and  was 
his  earliest  recollection  of  any  vividness.  It  was  also  his 
first  experience  of  nightmare:  a  wave  of  an  odd,  dun 
color,  almost  tawny,  that  rose  behind  him,  advanced, 
curled  over  in  the  act  of  toppling,  and  then  stood  still. 
It  threatened,  but  it  did  not  fall.  It  paused,  hovering 
in  a  position  contrary  to  nature ;  it  waited. 

Something  prevented;  it  was  not  meant  to  fall;  the 
right  moment  had  not  yet  arrived. 

If  only  it  would  fall !  It  swept  across  the  skyline  in  a 
huge,  long  curve  far  overhead,  hanging  dreadfully  sus- 
pended. Beneath  his  feet  he  felt  the  roots  of  it  with- 
drawing; he  shuffled  furiously  and  made  violent  efforts; 
but  the  suction  undermined  him  where  he  stood.  The 
ground  yielded  and  dropped  away.  He  only  sank  in 
deeper.  His  entire  weight  became  that  of  a  feather 
against  the  gigantic  tension  of  the  mass  that  any  moment, 
it  seemed,  must  lift  him  in  its  rising  curve,  bend,  break, 
and  twist  him,  then  fling  him  crashing  forward  to  his 
smothering  fate. 

Yet  the  moment  never  came.  The  Wave  hung  bal- 
anced between  him  and  the  sky,  poised  in  mid-air.  It  did 
not  fall.  And  the  torture  of  that  infinite  pause  con- 
tained the  essence  of  the  nightmare. 

The  Wave  invariably  came  up  behind  him,  stealthily, 

9 


io  The  Wave 

from  what  seemed  interminable  distance.  He  never  met 
it.  It  overtook  him  from  the  rear.  The  horizon  hid  it 
till  it  rose. 

There  were  stages  in  its  history,  moreover,  and  in  the 
effect  it  produced  upon  his  early  mind.  Usually  he  woke 
up  the  moment  he  realized  it  was  there.  For  it  invariably 
announced  its  presence.  He  heard  no  sound,  but  knew 
that  it  was  coming — there  was  a  feeling  in  the  atmosphere 
not  unlike  the  heavy  brooding  that  precedes  a  thunder- 
storm, only  so  different  from  anything  he  had  yet  known 
in  life,  that  his  heart  sank  into  his  boots.  He  looked  up. 
There,  above  his  head  was  the  huge,  curved  monster, 
hanging  in  mid-air.  The  mood  had  justified  itself.  He 
called  it  the  "wavy  feeling."  He  was  never  wrong 
about  it. 

The  second  stage  was  reached  when,  instead  of  trying 
to  escape  shorewards,  where  there  were  tufts  of  coarse 
grass  upon  a  sandy  bank,  he  turned  and  faced  the  thing. 
He  looked  straight  into  the  main  under-body  of  the  poised 
billow.  He  saw  the  opaque  mass  out  of  which  this  line 
rose  up  and  curved.  He  stared  against  the  dull,  dun- 
colored  parent  body  whence  it  came — the  sea.  Terri- 
fied yet  fascinated,  he  examined  it  in  detail,  as  a  man 
about  to  be  executed  might  examine  the  grain  of  the 
wooden  block  close  against  his  eyes.  A  little  higher,  some 
dozen  feet  above  the  level  of  his  head,  it  became  trans- 
parent ;  sunlight  shot  through  the  glassy  curve.  He  saw 
what  appeared  to  be  streaks  and  bubbles  and  transverse 
lines  of  foam  that  yet  did  not  shine  quite  as  water  shines. 
It  moved  suddenly;  it  curled  a  little  towards  the  crest; 
it  was  about  to  topple  over,  to  break — yet  did  not  break. 

About  this  time  he  noticed  another  thing:  there  was 
a  curious  faint  sweetness  in  the  air  beneath  the  bend  of  it, 
a  delicate  and  indescribable  odor  that  was  almost  per- 
fume. It  was  sweet ;  it  choked  him.  He  called  it,  in  his 
boyish  way,  a  whiff.  The  "whiff"  and  the  "wavy  feel- 
ing" impressed  themselves  so  vividly  upon  his  mind  that 


The  Wave  u 

if  ever  he  met  them  in  his  ordinary  life — out  of  dream 
that  is — he  was  sure  that  he  would  know  them.  In  an- 
other sense  he  felt  he  knew  them  already.  They  were 
familiar. 

But  another  stage  went  further  than  all  the  others  put 
together.  It  amounted  to  a  discovery.  He  was  perhaps 
ten  years  old  at  this  time,  for  he  was  still  addressed  as 
"Tommy,"  and  it  was  not  till  the  age  of  fifteen  that  his 
solid  type  of  character  made  "Tom"  seem  more  appro- 
priate. He  had  just  told  the  dream  to  his  mother  for  the 
hundredth  time,  and  she,  after  listening  with  sympathy, 
had  made  her  ever-green  suggestion — "If  you  dream  of 
water,  Tommy,  it  means  you're  thirsty  in  your  sleep," — 
when  he  turned  and  stared  straight  into  her  eyes  with 
such  intentness  that  she  gave  an  involuntary  start. 

"But,  mother,  it  isn't  water !" 

"Well,  darling,  if  it  isn't  water,  what  is  it,  then?"  She 
asked  the  question  quietly  enough,  but  she  felt,  ap- 
parently, something  of  the  queer  dismay  that  her  boy 
felt  too.  It  seemed  the  mother-sense  was  touched.  The 
instinct  to  protect  her  offspring  stirred  uneasily  in  her 
heart.  She  repeated  the  question,  interested  in  the  old, 
familiar  dream  for  the  first  time  since  she  heard  it  sev- 
eral years  before :  "If  it  isn't  water,  Tommy,  what  is  it? 
What  can  it  be  ?"  His  eyes,  his  voice,  his  manner — some- 
thing she  could  not  properly  name — had  startled  her. 

But  Tommy  noticed  her  slight  perturbation,  and 
knowing  that  a  boy  of  his  age  did  not  frighten  his  mother 
without  reason,  or  even  with  it,  turned  his  eyes  aside  and 
answered : 

"I  couldn't  tell.  There  wasn't  time.  You  see,  I  woke 
up  then." 

"How  curious,  Tommy,"  she  rejoined.  "A  wave  is  a 
wave,  isn't  it?" 

And  he  answered  thoughtfully  :  "Yes,  mother ;  but  there 
are  lots  of  things  besides  water,  aren't  there  ?" 

She  assented  with  a  nod,  and  a  searching  look  at  him 


12  The  Wave 

which  he  purposely  avoided.  The  subject  dropped;  no 
more  was  said;  yet  somehow  from  that  moment  his 
mother  knew  that  this  idea  of  a  wave,  whether  it  was 
nightmare  or  only  dream,  had  to  do  with  her  boy's  life 
in  a  way  that  touched  the  protective  thing  in  her,  almost 
to  the  point  of  positive  defense.  She  could  not  explain 
it ;  she  did  not  like  it ;  instinct  warned  her — that  was  all 
she  knew.  And  Tommy  said  no  more.  The  truth  was, 
indeed,  that  he  did  not  know  himself  of  what  the  wave 
was  composed.  He  could  not  have  told  his  mother  even 
had  he  considered  it  permissible.  He  would  have  loved 
to  speculate  and  talk  about  it  with  her,  but,  having  divined 
her  nervousness,  he  knew  he  must  not  feed  it.  No  boy 
should  do  such  a  thing. 

Moreover,  the  interest  he  felt  in  the  Wave  was  of 
such  a  deep  enormous  character — the  adjectives  were 
his  own — that  he  could  not  talk  about  it  lightly.  Unless 
to  some  one  who  showed  genuine  interest,  he  could  not 
even  mention  it.  To  his  brothers  and  sister,  both  older 
and  younger  than  himself,  he  never  spoke  of  it  at  all. 
It  had  to  do  with  something  so  fundamental  in  him  that 
it  was  sacred.  The  realization  of  it,  moreover,  came  and 
went,  and  often  remained  buried  for  weeks  together; 
months  passed  without  a  hint  of  it;  the  nightmare  dis- 
appeared. Then,  suddenly,  the  feeling  would  surge  over 
him,  perhaps  just  as  he  was  getting  into  bed,  or  saying 
his  prayers,  or  thinking  of  quite  other  things.  In  the 
middle  of  a  discussion  with  his  brother  about  their  air- 
guns  and  the  water-rat  they  hadn't  hit — up  would  steal 
the  "wavy"  feeling  with  its  dim,  familiar  menace.  It  stole 
in  across  his  brother's  excited  words  about  the  size  and 
speed  of  the  rat;  interest  in  sport  entirely  vanished;  he 
stared  at  Tim,  not  hearing  a  word  he  said ;  he  dived  into 
bed;  he  had  to  be  alone  with  the  great  mood  of  wonder 
and  terror  that  was  rising.  The  approach  was  unmistak- 
able ;  he  cuddled  beneath  the  sheets,  fighting-angry  if  Tim 
tried  to  win  him  back  to  the  original  interest.  The  dream 


The  Wave  13 

was  coming;  and,  sure  enough,  a  little  later  in  his  sleep, 
it  came. 

For,  even  at  this  stage  of  his  development  he  recog- 
nized instinctively  this  special  quality  about  it — that  it 
could  not,  was  not  meant  to  be  avoided.  It  was  inevitable 
and  right.  It  hurt,  yet  he  must  face  it.  It  was  as  neces- 
sary to  his  well-being  as  having  a  tooth  out.  Nor  did  he 
ever  seek  to  dodge  it.  His  character  was  not  the  kind 
that  flinched.  The  one  thing  he  did  ask  was — to  under- 
stand. Some  day,  he  felt,  this  full  understanding  would 
come. 

There  arrived  then  a  new  and  startling  development 
in  this  curious  obsession,  the  very  night,  Tommy  claims, 
that  there  had  been  the  fuss  about  the  gun  and  water-rat, 
on  the  day  before  the  conversation  with  his  mother.  His 
brother  had  plagued  him  to  come  out  from  beneath  the 
sheets  and  go  on  with  the  discussion,  and  Tommy,  furious 
at  being  disturbed  in  the  "wavy"  mood  he  both  loved  and 
dreaded,  had  felt  himself  roused  uncommonly.  He 
silenced  Tim  easily  enough  with  a  smashing  blow  from 
a  pillow,  then,  with  a  more  determined  effort  than  usual, 
buried  himself  to  face  the  advent  of  the  Wave.  He  fell 
asleep  in  the  attempt,  but  the  attempt  bore  fruit.  He 
felt  the  great  thing  coming  up  behind  him ;  he  turned ;  he 
saw  it  with  greater  distinctness  than  ever  before ;  almost 
he  discovered  of  what  it  was  composed. 

That  it  was  not  water  established  itself  finally  in  his 
mind ;  but  more — he  got  very  close  to  deciding  its  exact 
composition.  He  stared  hard  into  the  threatening  mass 
of  it;  there  was  a  certain  transparency  about  the  sub- 
stance, yet  this  transparency  was  not  clear  enough  for 
water :  there  were  particles,  and  these  particles  went  drift- 
ing by  the  thousand,  by  the  million,  through  the  mass  of 
it.  They  rose  and  fell,  they  swept  along,  they  were  very 
minute  indeed,  they  whirled.  They  glistened,  shimmered, 
flashed.  He  made  a  guess;  he  was  just  on  the  point  of 
guessing  right,  in  fact,  when  he  saw  another  thing  that 


14  The  Wave 

for  the  moment  obliterated  all  his  faculties.  There  was 
both  cold  and  heat  in  the  sensation,  fear  and  delight.  It 
transfixed  him.  He  saw  eyes. 

Steady,  behind  the  millions  of  minute  particles  that 
whirled  and  drifted,  he  distinctly  saw  a  pair  of  eyes  of 
light-blue  color,  and  hardly  had  he  registered  this  new 
discovery,  when  another  pair,  but  of  quite  different  kind, 
became  visible  beyond  the  first  pair — dark,  with  a  fringe 
of  long,  thick  lashes.  They  were — he  decided  afterwards 
— what  is  called  eastern  eyes,  and  they  smiled  into  his 
own  through  half-closed  lids.  He  thinks  he  made  out  a 
face  that  was  dimly  sketched  behind  them,  but  the  whirl- 
ing particles  glinted  and  shimmered  in  such  a  confusing 
way  that  he  could  not  swear  to  this.  Of  one  thing  only, 
or  rather  of  two,  did  he  feel  quite  positive:  that  the  dark 
eyes  were  those  of  a  woman,  and  that  they  were  kind  and 
beautiful  and  true :  but  that  the  pale-blue  eyes  were  false, 
unkind,  and  treacherous,  and  that  the  face  to  which  they 
belonged,  although  he  could  not  see  it,  was  a  man's. 
Dimly  his  boyish  heart  was  aware  of  happiness  and  suf- 
fering. The  heat  and  cold  he  felt,  the  joy  and  terror, 
were  half  explained.  He  stared.  The  whirling  particles 
drifted  up  and  hid  them.  He  woke. 

That  day,  however,  the  "wavy"  feeling  hovered  over 
him  more  or  less  continuously.  The  impression  of  the 
night  held  sway  over  all  he  did  and  thought.  There  was 
a  kind  of  guidance  in  it  somewhere.  He  obeyed  this  guid- 
ance as  by  an  instinct  he  could  not,  dared  not  disregard, 
and  towards  dusk  it  led  him  into  the  quiet  room  overlook- 
ing the  small  Gardens  at  the  back  of  the  house,  his 
father's  study.  The  room  was  empty ;  he  approached  the 
big  mahogany  cupboard ;  he  opened  one  of  the  deep  draw- 
ers where  he  knew  his  father  kept  gold  and  private  things, 
and  birthday  or  Christmas  presents.  But  there  was  no 
dishonorable  intention  in  him  anywhere;  indeed,  he 
hardly  knew  exactly  why  he  did  this  thing.  The  drawer, 
though  moving  easily,  was  heavy ;  he  pulled  hard ;  it  slid 


The  Wave  15 

out  with  a  rush ;  and  at  that  moment  a  stern  voice  sound- 
ed in  the  room  behind  him :  "What  are  you  doing  at  my 
eastern  drawer?" 

Tommy,  one  hand  still  on  the  knob,  turned  as  if  he 
had  been  struck.  He  gazed  at  his  father,  but  without  a 
trace  of  guilt  upon  his  face. 

"I  wanted  to  see,  Daddy." 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  the  stern-faced  man,  yet  with 
kindness  and  humor  in  the  tone.  "It's  full  of  wonderful 
things.  I've  nothing  secret  from  you,  but  another  time 
you'd  better  ask  first — Tommy." 

"I  wanted  to  see,"  faltered  the  boy.  "I  don't  know  why 
I  did  it.  I  just  had  a  feeling.  It's  the  first  time — really." 

The  man  watched  him  searchingly  a  moment,  but  with- 
out appearing  to  do  so.  A  look  of  interest  and  under- 
standing, wholly  missed  by  the  culprit,  stole  into  his  fine 
gray  eyes.  He  smiled,  then  drew  Tommy  towards  him, 
and  gave  him  a  kiss  on  the  top  of  his  curly  head.  He 
also  smacked  him  playfully.  Curiosity,"  he  said  with 
pretended  disapproval,  "is  divine,  and  at  your  age  it  is 
right  that  you  should  feel  curiosity  about  everything  in 
the  world.  But  another  time  just  ask  me — and  I'll  show 
you  all  I  possess."  He  lifted  his  son  in  his  arms,  so  that 
for  the  first  time  the  boy  could  overlook  the  contents  of 
the  opened  drawer.  "So  you  just  had  a  feeling,  eh — ?" 
he  continued,  when  Tommy  wriggled  in  his  arms,  uttered 
a  curious  exclamation,  and  half  collapsed.  He  seemed 
upon  the  verge  of  tears.  An  ordinary  father  must  have 
held  him  guilty  there  and  then.  The  boy  cried  out 
excitedly : 

"The  whiff !    Oh,  Daddy,  it's  my  whiff !" 

The  tears,  no  longer  to  be  denied,  came  freely  then; 
after  them  came  confession  too,  and  confused  though  it 
was,  the  man  made  something  approaching  sense  out  of 
the  jumbled  utterance.  It  was  not  mere  patient  kindness 
on  his  part,  for  an  older  person  would  have  seen  that 
genuine  interest  lay  behind  the  half-playful,  half-serious 


1 6  The  Wave 

cross-examination.  He  watched  the  boy's  eager,  excited 
face  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes ;  he  put  discerning  ques- 
tions to  him;  he  assisted  his  faltering  replies;  and  he 
obtained  in  the  end  the  entire  story  of  the  dream,  the 
eyes,  the  wavy  feeling  and  the  whiff.  How  much  co- 
herent meaning  he  discovered  in  it  all  is  hard  to  say,  or 
whether  the  story  he  managed  to  disentangle  held  to- 
gether. There  was  this  strange  deep  feeling  in  the  boy, 
this  strong  emotion,  this  odd  conviction  amounting  to  an 
obsession;  and  so  far  as  could  be  discovered,  it  was  not 
traceable  to  any  definite  cause  that  Tommy  could  name — 
a  fright,  a  shock,  a  vivid  impression  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other upon  a  sensitive  young  imagination.  It  lay  so 
deeply  in  his  being  that  its  roots  were  utterly  concealed ; 
but  it  was  real. 

Dr.  Kelverdon  established  the  existence  in  his  eldest 
boy  of  an  unalterable  premonition,  and,  being  a  famous 
nerve  specialist,  and  a  disciple  of  Freud  into  the  bargain, 
he  believed  that  a  premonition  has  a  cause,  however 
primitive,  however  carefully  concealed  that  cause  may  be. 
He  put  the  boy  to  bed  himself  and  tucked  him  up,  told 
Tim  that  if  he  teased  his  brother  too  much  he  would 
smack  him  with  his  best  Burmese  slipper  which  had  tiny 
nails  in  it,  and  then  whispered  into  Tommy's  ear  as  he 
cuddled  down,  happy  and  comforted,  among  the  blankets : 
"Don't  make  a  special  effort  to  dream,  my  boy,  but  if  you 
do  dream,  try  to  remember  it  next  morning,  and  tell  me 
exactly  what  you  see  and  feel."  He  used  the  Freudian 
method. 

Then,  going  down  to  his  study  again,  he  looked  at 
the  open  drawer  and  sniffed  the  faint  perfume  of  things — 
chiefly  from  Egypt — that  lay  inside  it.  But  there  was 
nothing  of  special  interest  in  the  drawer :  indeed,  it  was 
one  he  had  not  touched  for  years.  He  went  over  one  by 
one  a  few  of  the  articles,  collected  from  various  points 
of  travel  long  ago.  There  were  bead  necklaces  from 
Memphis,  some  trash  from  a  mummy  of  doubtful  authen- 


The  Wave  17 

ticity,  including  several  amulets  and  a  crumbling  frag- 
ment of  old  papyrus,  and,  among  all  this,  a  tiny  packet 
of  incense  mixed  from  a  recipe  said  to  have  been  found  in 
a  Theban  tomb.  All  these,  jumbled  together  in  pieces 
of  tissue  paper,  had  lain  undisturbed  since  the  day  he 
wrapped  them  up  some  dozen  years  before — indeed  he 
heard  the  dry  rattle  of  the  falling  sand  as  he  undid  the 
tissue  paper.  But  a  strong  perfume  rose  from  the  parcel 
to  his  nostrils.  "That's  what  Tommy  means  by  his  whiff," 
he  said  to  himself.  "That's  Tommy's  whiff  beyond  all 
question.  I  wonder  how  he  got  it  first?" 

He  remembered,  then,  that  he  had  made  a  note  of 
the  story  connected  with  the  incense,  and  after  some 
rummaging,  he  found  the  envelope,  and  read  the  account 
jotted  down  at  the  time.  He  had  meant  to  hand  it  over 
to  a  literary  friend — the  tale  was  so  poignantly  human — 
then  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  The  papyrus,  dating  over 
3,000  B.C.  had  many  gaps.  The  Egyptologist  had  ad- 
mittedly filled  in  considerable  blanks  in  the  afflicting 
story : 

"A  victorious  Theban  General,  Prince  of  the  blood, 
brought  back  a  Syrian  youth  from  one  of  his  foreign 
conquests  and  presented  him  to  his  young  wife  who,  first 
mothered  him  for  his  beauty,  then  made  him  her  personal 
slave,  and  ended  by  caring  deeply  for  him.  The  slave, 
in  return,  loved  her  with  passionate  adoration  he  was  un- 
able to  conceal.  As  a  Lady  of  the  Court,  her  quasi-adop- 
tion  of  the  youth  caused  comment.  Her  husband  ordered 
his  dismissal.  But  she  still  made  his  welfare  her  especial 
object,  finding  frequent  reasons  for  their  meeting.  One 
day,  however,  her  husband  caught  them  together,  though 
their  meeting  was  in  innocence.  He  half  strangled  the 
youth,  till  the  blood  poured  down  upon  his  own  hands, 
then  had  him  flogged  and  sent  away  to  On  the  City  of 
the  Sun. 

"The  Syrian  found  his  way  back  again,  vengeance  in 
his  fiery  blood.  The  clandestine  yet  innocent  meetings 


1 8  The  Wave 

were  renewed.  Rank  was  forgotten.  They  met  among 
the  sand-dunes  in  the  desert  behind  the  city  where  a  pleas- 
ure tent  among  a  grove  of  palms  provided  shelter,  and 
the  slave  losing  his  head,  urged  the  Princess  to  fly  with 
him.  Yet  the  wife,  true  to  her  profligate  and  brutal  hus- 
band, refused  his  plea,  saying  she  could  only  give  a 
mother's  love,  a  mother's  care.  This  he  rejected  bitterly, 
accusing  her  of  trifling  with  him.  He  grew  bolder  and 
more  insistent.  To  divert  her  husband's  violent  suspicions 
she  became  purposely  cruel,  even  ordering  him  punish- 
ments. But  the  slave  misinterpreted.  Finally,  warning 
him  that  if  caught  he  would  be  killed,  she  devised  a  plan 
to  convince  him  of  her  sincerity.  Hiding  him  behind  the 
curtains  of  her  tent,  she  pleaded  with  her  husband  for 
the  youth's  recall,  swearing  that  she  meant  no  wrong. 
But  the  soldier,  in  his  fury,  abused  and  struck  her,  and 
the  slave,  unable  to  contain  himself,  rushed  out  of  his 
hiding-place  and  stabbed  him,  though  not  mortally.  He 
was  condemned  to  death  by  torture.  She  was  to  be  chief 
witness  against  him. 

"Meanwhile,  having  extracted  a  promise  from  her  hus- 
band that  the  torture  should  not  be  carried  to  the  point 
of  death,  she  conveyed  word  to  the  victim  that  he  should 
endure  bravely,  knowing  that  he  would  not  die.  She 
now  realized  that  she  loved.  She  promised  to  fly  with 
him. 

"The  sentence  was  duly  carried  out,  the  slave  only  half 
believing  in  her  truth.  It  was  a  public  holiday  in  Thebes. 
She  was  compelled  to  see  the  punishment  inflicted  before 
the  crowd.  There  were  a  thousand  drums.  A  sand-storm 
hid  the  sun. 

"Seated  beside  her  husband  on  a  terrace  above  the 
Nile,  she  watched  the  torture — then  knew  she  had  been 
tricked.  But  the  Syrian  did  not  know;  he  believed  her 
false.  As  he  expired,  casting  his  last  glance  of  anguish 
and  reproach  at  her,  she  rose,  leaped  the  parapet,  flung 
herself  into  the  river,  and  was  drowned.  The  husband 


The  Wave  19 

had  their  bodies  thrown  into  the  sea,  unburied.  The  same 
wave  took  them  both.  Later,  however,  they  were  recov- 
ered by  influential  friends;  they  were  embalmed,  and 
secretly  laid  to  rest  in  his  ancestral  Tomb  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Kings  among  the  Theban  Hills.  In  due  course,  the 
husband,  unwittingly,  was  buried  with  them. 

"Nearly  five  thousand  years  later  all  three  mummies 
were  discovered  lying  side  by  side,  their  story  inscribed 
upon  a  papyrus  inside  the  great  sarcophagus." 

Dr.  Kelverdon  glanced  through  the  story  he  had  for- 
gotten, then  tore  it  into  little  pieces  and  threw  them  into 
the  fire-place.  For  a  moment  longer,  however,  he  stood 
beside  the  open  drawer,  reflectingly.  Had  he  ever  told 
the  tale  to  Tommy?  No;  it  was  hardly  likely;  indeed  it 
was  impossible.  The  boy  was  not  born  even  when  first  he 
heard  it.  To  his  wife,  then  ?  Less  likely  still.  He  could 
not  remember,  anyhow.  The  faint  suggestion  in  his 
mind — a  story  communicated  pre-natally — was  not  worth 
following  up.  He  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  thoughts. 
He  closed  the  drawer  and  turned  away.  The  little  packet 
of  incense,  however,  taken  from  the  Tomb,  he  did  not 
destroy.  "I'll  give  it  to  Tommy,"  he  decided.  "Its  whiff 
may  possibly  stimulate  him  into  explanation!" 


CHAPTER  II 

AS  a  result  of  having  told  everything  to  his  father, 
Tommy's  nightmare,  however,  largely  ceased  to 
trouble  him.  He  had  found  the  relief  of  expression, 
which  is  confession,  and  had  laid  upon  the  older  mind 
the  burden  of  his  terror.  Once  a  month,  once  a  week,  or 
even  daily  if  he  wanted  to,  he  could  repeat  the  expression 
as  the  need  for  it  accumulated,  and  the  load  which  de- 
cency forbade  being  laid  upon  his  mother,  the  stern-faced 
man  could  carry  easily  for  him. 

The  comfortable  sensation  that  forgiveness  is  the  com- 
pletion of  confession  invaded  his  awakening  mind,  and 
had  he  been  older  this  thin  end  of  a  religious  wedge  might 
have  persuaded  him  to  join  what  his  mother  called  that 
"vast  conspiracy."  But  even  at  this  early  stage  there 
was  something  stalwart  and  self-reliant  in  his  cast  of 
character  that  resisted  the  cunning  sophistry;  vicarious 
relief  woke  resentment  in  him;  he  meant  to  face  his 
troubles  alone.  So  far  as  he  knew,  he  had  not  sinned,  yet 
the  Wave,  the  Whiff,  the  Eyes  were  symptoms  of  some 
fate  that  threatened  him,  a  premonition  of  something 
coming  that  he  must  meet  with  his  own  strength,  some- 
thing that  he  could  only  deal  with  effectively  alone,  since 
it  was  deserved  and  just.  One  day  the  Wave  would  fall ; 
his  father  could  not  help  him  then.  This  instinct  in  him 
remained  unassailable.  He  even  began  to  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  it  should  come — to  have  done  with  it 
and  get  it  over,  conquering  or  conquered. 

The  premonition,  that  is,  while  remaining  an  obsession 
as  before,  transferred  itself  from  his  inner  to  his  outer 
life.  The  nightmare,  therefore,  ceased.  The  menacing 
interest,  however,  held  unchanged.  Though  the  name 

20 


The  Wave  21 

had  not  hitherto  occurred  to  him,  he  became  a  fatalist. 
"It's  got  to  come ;  I've  got  to  meet  it.  I  will." 

"Well,  Tommy,"  his  father  would  ask  from  time  to 
time,  "been  dreaming  anything  lately  ?" 

"Nothing,  Daddy.    It's  all  stopped." 

"Wave,  eyes  and  whiff  all  forgotten,  eh  ?" 

Tommy  shook  his  head.  "They're  still  there,"  he  an- 
swered slowly,  "but ."  He  seemed  unable  to  com- 
plete the  sentence.  His  father  helped  him  at  a  venture. 

"But  they  can't  catch  you— is  that  it?" 

The  boy  looked  up  with  a  dogged  expression  in  his  big 
gray  eyes.  "I'm  ready  for  them,"  he  replied.  And  his 
father  laughed  and  said  "Of  course.  That's  half  the 
battle." 

He  gave  him  a  present  then — one  of  the  packets  of 
tissue-paper,  and  Tommy  took  it  in  triumph  to  his  room. 
He  opened  it  in  private,  but  the  contents  seemed  to  him 
without  especial  interest.  Only  the  Whiff  was,  somehow, 
sweet  and  precious,  and  he  kept  the  packet  in  a  drawer 
apart  where  the  fossils  and  catapult  and  air-gun  ammuni- 
tion could  not  interfere  with  it,  hiding  the  key  so  that 
Tim  and  the  servants  could  not  find  it.  And  on  rare  occa- 
sions, when  the  rest  of  the  household  was  asleep,  he  per- 
formed a  little  ritual  of  his  own  that,  for  a  boy  of  eight, 
was  distinctly  singular. 

When  the  room  was  dark,  lit  in  winter  by  the  dying 
fire,  or  in  summer  by  the  stars,  he  would  creep  out  of 
bed,  make  quite  sure  that  Tim  was  asleep,  stand  on  a 
chair  to  reach  the  key  from  the  top  of  the  big  cupboard, 
and  carefully  unlock  the  drawer.  He  had  oiled  the  wood 
with  butter,  so  that  it  was  silent.  The  tissue-paper 
gleamed  dimly  pink;  the  Whiff  came  out  to  meet  him. 
He  lifted  the  packet,  soft  and  crackling,  and  set  it  on  the 
window-sill ;  he  did  not  open  it ;  its  contents  had  no  inter- 
est for  him,  it  was  the  perfume  he  was  after.  And  the 
moment  the  perfume  reached  his  nostrils  there  came  a 
trembling  over  him  that  he  could  not  understand.  He 


22  The  Wave 

both  loved  and  dreaded  it.  This  manly,  wholesome- 
minded,  plucky  little  boy,  the  basis  of  whose  steady  char- 
acter was  common  sense,  became  the  prey  of  a  strange, 
unreasonable  fantasy.  A  faintness  stole  upon  him;  he 
lost  the  sense  of  kneeling  on  a  solid  chair;  something  im- 
mense and  irresistible  came  piling  up  behind  him;  there 
was  nothing  firm  he  could  push  against  to  save  himself ; 
he  began  shuffling  with  his  bare  feet,  struggling  to  escape 
from  something  that  was  coming,  something  that  would 
probably  overwhelm  him  yet  must  positively  be  faced  and 
battled  with.  The  Wave  was  rising.  It  was  the  wavy 
feeling. 

He  did  not  turn  to  look,  because  he  knew  quite  well 
there  was  nothing  in  the  room  but  beds,  a  fender,  furni- 
ture, vague  shadows  and  his  brother  Tim.  That  kind  of 
childish  fear  had  no  place  in  what  he  felt.  But  the  Wave 
was  piled  and  curving  over  none  the  less ;  it  hung  between 
him  and  the  shadowed  ceiling,  above  the  roof  of  the 
house,  it  came  from  beyond  the  world,  far  overhead 
against  the  crowding  stars.  It  would  not  break,  for  the 
time  had  not  yet  come.  But  it  was  there.  It  waited.  He 
knelt  beneath  its  mighty  shadow  of  advance;  it  was  still 
arrested,  poised  above  his  eager  life,  competent  to  engulf 
him  when  the  time  arrived.  The  sweep  of  its  curved 
mass  was  mountainous.  He  knelt  inside  this  curve,  small, 
helpless,  but  not  too  afraid  to  fight.  The  perfume  stole 
about  him.  The  Whiff  was  in  his  nostrils.  There  was  a 
strange,  rich  pain — oddly  remote,  yet  oddly  poignant.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  with  this  perfume  that  the  ritual  chiefly 
had  to  do.  He  loved  the  extraordinary  sensations  that 
came  with  it,  and  tried  to  probe  their  meaning  in  his  boy- 
ish way.  Meaning  there  was,  but  it  escaped  him.  The 
sweetness  clouded  something  in  his  brain,  and  made  his 
muscles  weak;  it  robbed  him  of  that  resistance  which  is 
fighting  strength.  It  was  this  battle  that  he  loved,  this 
sense  of  shoving  against  something  that  might  so  easily 
crush  and  finish  him.  There  was  a  way  to  beat  it,  a  way 


The  Wave  23 

to  win — could  he  but  discover  it.  As  yet  he  could  not. 
Victory,  he  felt,  lay  more  in  yielding  and  going-with  than 
in  violent  resistance. 

And,  meanwhile,  in  an  ecstasy  of  this  half  yielding, 
half  resisting,  he  lent  himself  fully  to  the  over-mastering 
tide.  He  was  conscious  of  attraction  and  repulsion,  some- 
thing that  enticed,  yet  thrust  him  backwards.  Some  final 
test  of  manhood,  character,  value,  lay  in  the  way  he  faced 
it.  The  strange,  rich  pain  stole  marvelously  into  his 
blood  and  nerves.  His  heart  beat  faster.  There  was  this 
exquisite  seduction  that  contained  delicious  danger.  It 
rose  upon  him  out  of  some  inner  depth  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly get  at.  He  trembled  with  mingled  terror  and  de- 
light. And  it  invariably  ended  with  a  kind  of  inexpres- 
sible yearning  that  choked  him,  crumpled  him  inwardly, 
as  he  described  it,  brought  the  moisture,  hot  and  smart- 
ing, into  his  burning  eyes,  and — each  time  to  his  bitter 
shame — left  his  cheeks  wet  with  scalding  tears. 

He  cried  silently,  there  was  no  heaving,  gulping,  audi- 
ble sobbing;  just  a  relieving  gush  of  heartfelt  tears  that 
took  away  the  strange,  rich  pain  and  brought  the  singular 
ritual  to  a  finish.  He  replaced  the  tissue-paper,  blotted 
with  his  tears;  locked  the  drawer  carefully;  hid  the  key 
on  the  top  of  the  cupboard  again,  and  tumbled  back  into 
bed. 

Downstairs,  meanwhile,  a  conversation  was  in  progress 
concerning  the  welfare  of  the  growing  hero. 

"I'm  glad  that  dream  has  left  him  anyhow.  It  used 
to  frighten  me  rather.  I  did  not  like  it,"  observed  his 
mother. 

"He  doesn't  speak  to  you  about  it  any  more?"  the 
father  asked. 

For  months,  she  told  him,  Tommy  had  not  mentioned 
it.  They  went  on  to  discuss  his  future  together.  The 
other  children  presented  fewer  problems,  but  Tommy, 
apparently,  felt  no  particular  call  to  any  profession. 

"It  will  come  with  a  jump,"  the  doctor  inclined  to  think. 


24  The  Wave 

He's  been  on  the  level  for  some  time  now.  Suddenly 
he'll  grow  up  and  declare  his  mighty  mind." 

Father  liked  humor  in  the  gravest  talk;  indeed  the 
weightier  the  subject,  the  more  he  valued  a  humorous 
light  upon  it.  The  best  judgment,  he  held,  was  shaped 
by  humor,  sense  of  proportion  lost  without  it.  His  wife, 
however,  thought  "it  a  pity."  Grave  things  she  liked 
grave. 

"There's  something  very  deep  in  Tommy,"  she  observed 
as  though  he  were  developing  a  hidden  malady. 

"Hum,"  agreed  her  husband.  "His  subconscious  con- 
tent is  unusual,  both  in  kind  and  quantity."  His  eyes 
twinkled.  "It's  possible  he  may  turn  out  an  artist,  or  a 
preacher.  If  the  former,  I'll  bet  his  output  will  be  origi- 
nal; and,  as  for  the  latter" — he  paused  a  second — "he's 
too  logical  and  too  fearless  to  be  orthodox.  Already  he 
thinks  things  out  for  himself." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him  in  the  Church,  though,"  said 
Mother.  "He  would  do  a  lot  of  good.  But  he  is  uncom- 
promising, rather." 

"His  honesty  certainly  is  against  him,"  sighed  his 
father.  "What  do  you  think  he  asked  me  the  other  day  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  John."  The  answer  completed 
itself  with  the  unspoken:  "He  never  asks  me  anything 
now." 

"He  came  straight  up  to  me  and  said,  'Father,  is  it  good 
to  feel  pain  ?  To  let  it  come,  I  mean,  or  try  to  dodge  it  ?'  " 

"Had  he  hurt  himself  ?"  the  woman  asked  quickly.  It 
seemed  she  winced. 

"Not  physically.  He  had  been  feeling  something  in- 
side. He  wanted  to  know  how  'a  man'  should  meet  the 
case." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him,  dear?" 

"That  pain  was  usually  a  sign  of  growth,  to  be  under- 
stood, accepted,  faced.  That  most  pain  was  cured  in  that 
way " 


The  Wave  25 

"He  didn't  tell  you  what  had  hurt  him?"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  ask  him.  He'd  have  shut  up  like  a  clam. 
Tommy  likes  to  deal  with  things  alone  in  his  own  way. 
He  just  wanted  to  know  if  his  way  was — well,  my  way." 

There  fell  a  pause  between  them ;  then  Mother,  without 
looking  up,  inquired,  "Have  you  noticed  Lettice  lately? 
She's  here  a  good  deal  now." 

But  her  husband  only  smiled,  making  no  direct  reply. 
"Tommy  will  have  a  hard  time  of  it  when  he  falls  in 
love,"  he  remarked  presently.  "He'll  know  the  real  thing 
and  won't  stand  any  nonsense — just  as  I  did."  Where- 
upon his  wife  informed  him  that  if  he  was  not  careful 
he  would  simply  ruin  the  boy — and  the  brief  conversation 
died  away  of  its  own  accord.  As  she  was  leaving  the 
room,  a  little  later,  unsatisfied  but  unaggressive,  he  asked 
her:  "Have  you  left  the  picture  books,  my  dear?";  and 
she  pointed  to  an  ominous  heap  upon  the  table  in  the  win- 
dow, with  the  remark  that  Jane  had  "unearthed  every 
book  that  Tommy  had  set  eyes  upon  since  he  was  three. 
You'll  find  everything  that's  ever  interested  him,"  she 
added  as  she  went  out,  "every  picture,  that  is — and  I 
suppose  it  is  the  pictures  that  you  want." 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  great  specialist  turned  pages 
without  ceasing;  well-thumbed  pages,  torn,  crumpled, 
blotted,  painted  pages ;  it  was  easy  to  discover  the  boy's 
favorite  pictures ;  and  all  were  commonplace  enough,  the 
sort  that  any  normal,  adventure-loving  boy  would  find 
delightful.  But  nothing  of  special  significance  resulted 
from  the  search ;  nothing  that  might  account  for  the  re- 
current nightmare ;  nothing  in  the  way  of  eyes  or  wave. 
He  had  already  questioned  Jane  as  to  what  stories  she 
told  him,  and  which  among  them  he  liked  best.  "Hunting 
or  travel  or  collecting,"  Jane  had  answered,  and  it  was 
about  "collecting  that  he  asks  most  questions.  What  kind 
of  collecting,  sir?  Oh,  treasure  or  rare  beetles  mostly, 
and  sometimes — just  bones." 


26  The  Wave 

"Bones!    What  kind  of  bones?" 

"The  villin's,  sir,"  explained  the  frightened  Jane.  "He 
always  likes  the  villin  to  get  lost,  and  for  the  jackals  to 
pick  his  bones  in  the  desert " 

"Any  particular  desert?" 

"No,  sir;  just  desert." 

"Ah — just  desert !    Any  old  desert,  eh  ?" 

"I  think  so,  sir — as  long  as  it  is  desert." 

Dr.  Kelverdon  put  the  woman  at  her  ease  with  the 
humorous  smile  that  made  all  the  household  love — and 
respect — him;  then  asked  another  question,  as  if  casu- 
ally :  Had  she  ever  told  him  a  story  in  which  a  wave  or 
a  pair  of  eyes  were  in  any  way  conspicuous  ? 

"No,  never,  sir,"  replied  the  honest  Jane,  after  careful 
reflection;  "nor  I  wouldn't,"  she  added,  "because  my 
father  he  was  drowned  in  a  tidal  wave,  and  as  for  eyes, 
I  know  that's  wrong  for  children,  and  I  wouldn't  tell 
Master  Tommy  such  a  thing  for  all  the  world " 

"Because  ?"  inquired  the  doctor  kindly,  seeing  her  hesi- 
tation. 

"I'd  be  frightening  myself,  sir,  and  he'd  make  such 
fun  of  me,"  she  finally  confessed. 

No,  it  was  clear  that  the  nurse  was  not  responsible 
for  the  vivid  impression  in  Tommy's  mind  which  bore 
fruit  in  so  strange  a  complex  of  emotions.  Nor  were 
other  lines  of  inquiry  more  successful.  There  was  a 
cause,  of  course,  but  it  would  remain  unascertainable 
unless  some  clue  offered  itself  by  chance.  Both  the  doc- 
tor and  the  father  in  him  were  pledged  to  a  persistent 
search  that  was  prolonged  over  several  months,  but  with- 
out result.  The  most  perplexing  element  in  the  problem 
seemed  to  him  the  whiff.  The  association  of  terror  with 
a  wave  needed  little  explanation ;  the  introduction  of  the 
eyes,  however,  was  puzzling,  unless  some  story  of  a 
drowning  man  was  possibly  the  clue ;  but  the  addition  of 
a  definite  odor,  an  eastern  odor,  moreover,  with  which  the 
boy  could  hardly  have  become  yet  acquainted, — this  com- 


The  Wave  27 

bination  of  the  three  accounted  for  the  peculiar  interest  in 
the  doctor's  mind. 

Of  one  thing  alone  did  he  feel  reasonably  certain :  the 
impression  had  been  printed  upon  the  deepest  part  of 
Tommy's  being,  the  very  deepest ;  it  arose  from  those  un- 
plumbed  profundities — though  a  scientist,  he  considered 
them  unfathomable — of  character  and  temperament 
whence  emerge  the  most  primitive  of  instincts ;  the  gen- 
erative and  creative  instinct;  choice  of  a  mate;  natural 
likes  and  dislikes ;  the  bed-rock  of  the  nature.  A  girl  was 
in  it  somewhere,  somehow.  .  .  . 

Midnight  had  sounded  from  the  stable  clock  in  the 
mews  when  he  stole  up  into  the  boys'  room  and  cautiously 
approached  the  yellow  iron  bed  where  Tommy  lay.  The 
reflection  of  a  street  electric  light  just  edged  his  face. 
He  was  sound  asleep — with  tear-stains  marked  clearly  on 
the  cheek  not  pressed  into  the  pillow.  Dr.  Kelverdon 
paused  a  moment,  looked  round  the  room,  shading  the 
candle  with  one  hand.  He  saw  no  photographs,  no  pic- 
tures anywhere.  Then  he  sniffed.  There  was  a  faint  and 
delicate  perfume  in  the  air.  He  recognized  it.  He  stood 
there,  thinking  deeply. 

"Lettice  Aylmer,"  he  said  to  himself  presently  as  he 
went  softly  out  again  to  seek  his  own  bed ;  "I'll  try  Let- 
tice. It's  just  possible.  .  .  .  Next  time  I  see  her  I'll 
have  a  little  talk."  For  he  suddenly  remembered  that 
Lettice  Aylmer,  his  daughter's  friend  and  playmate,  had 
very  large  and  beautiful  dark  eyes. 


CHAPTER   III 

LETTICE  AYLMER,  daughter  of  the  Irish  Member 
of  Parliament,  did  not  provide  the  little  talk  that  he 
anticipated,  however,  because  she  went  back  to  her  Fin- 
ishing School  abroad.  Dr.  Kelverdon  was  sorry  when  he 
heard  it.  So  was  Tommy.  She  was  to  be  away  a  year 
at  least.  "I  must  remember  to  have  a  word  with  her 
when  she  comes  back,"  thought  the  father,  and  made  a 
note  of  it  in  his  diary  twelve  months  ahead.  "Three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  days,"  thought  Tommy,  and  made  a 
private  calendar  of  his  own. 

It  seemed  an  endless,  zodiacal  kind  of  period;  he 
counted  the  days,  a  sheet  of  foolscap  paper  for  each 
month,  and  at  the  bottom  of  each  sheet  two  columns 
showing  the  balance  of  days  gone  and  days  to  come. 
Tuesday,  when  he  had  first  seen  her,  was  underlined,  and 
each  Tuesday  had  a  number  attached  to  it,  giving  the  total 
number  of  weeks  since  that  wonderful  occasion.  But 
Saturdays  were  printed.  On  Saturday  Lettice  had  spoken 
to  him :  she  had  smiled ;  and  the  words  were  "Don't  for- 
get me,  Tommy !"  And  Tommy,  looking  straight  into  her 
great  dark  eyes,  that  seemed  to  him  more  tender  even 
than  his  mother's,  had  stammered  a  reply  that  he  meant 
with  literal  honesty:  "I  won't — never  .  .  .";  and  she 
was  gone  ...  to  France  .  .  .  across  the  sea. 

She  took  his  soul  away  with  her,  leaving  him  behind 
to  pore  over  his  father's  big  atlas  and  learn  French  sen- 
tences by  heart.  It  seemed  the  only  way.  Life  had  be- 
gun, and  he  must  be  prepared.  Also,  his  career  was 
chosen.  For  Lettice  had  said  another  thing — one  other 
thing.  When  Mary,  his  sister,  introduced  him:  "This 
is  Tommy,"  Lettice  looked  down  and  asked :  "Are  you 

28 


The  Wave  29 

going  to  be  an  engineer?"  adding  proudly,  "My  brother 
is."  Before  he  could  answer  she  was  scampering  away 
with  Mary,  the  dark  hair  flying  in  a  cloud,  the  bright  bow 
upon  it  twinkling  like  a  star  in  heaven — and  Tommy,  hat- 
ing his  ridiculous  boyish  name  with  an  intense  hatred, 
stood  there  trembling,  but  aware  that  the  die  was  cast — 
he  was  going  to  be  an  engineer. 

Trembling,  yes ;  for  he  felt  dazed  and  helpless,  caught 
in  a  mist  of  fire  and  gold,  the  furniture  whirling  round 
him,  and  something  singing  wildly  in  his  heart.  Two 
things,  each  containing  in  them  the  essence  of  genuine 
shock,  had  fallen  upon  him:  shock,  because  there  was 
impetus  in  them  as  of  a  blow.  They  had  been  coming; 
they  had  reached  him.  There  was  no  doubt  or  question 
possible.  He  staggered  from  the  impact.  Joy  and  terror 
touched  him ;  at  one  and  the  same  moment  he  felt  the  en- 
ticement and  the  shrinking  of  his  dream.  .  .  .  He  longed 
to  seize  her  and  prevent  her  ever  going  away,  yet  also  he 
wanted  to  push  her  from  him  as  though  she  somehow 
caused  him  pain. 

For,  on  the  two  occasions  when  speech  had  taken  place 
between  himself  and  Lettice  the  dream  had  transferred 
itself  boldly  into  his  objective  life — yet  not  entirely. 
Two  characteristics  only  had  been  thus  transferred. 
When  his  sister  first  came  into  the  hall  with  "This  is 
Tommy,"  the  wavy  feeling  had  already  preceded  her  by 
a  definite  interval  that  was  perhaps  a  second  by  the  watch. 
He  was  aware  of  it  behind  him,  curved  and  risen — not 
curving,  rising — from  the  open  fireplace,  but  also  from 
the  woods  behind  the  house,  from  the  whole  of  the  coun- 
try right  back  to  the  coast,  from  across  the  world,  it 
seemed,  towering  overhead  against  the  wintry  sky.  And 
when  Lettice  smiled  and  asked  that  question  of  childish 
admiration  about  being  an  engineer — he  was  already 
shuffling  furiously  with  his  feet  upon  the  Indian  rug. 
She  was  gone  again,  luckily,  he  hoped,  before  the  ridicu- 
lous pantomime  was  noticeable. 


30  The  Wave 

He  saw  her  once  or  twice.  He  was  invariably  speech- 
less when  she  came  into  his  presence,  and  his  silence  and 
awkwardness  made  him  appear  at  great  disadvantage. 
He  seemed  intentionally  rude.  Nervous  self-conscious- 
ness caused  him  to  bridle  over  nothing.  Even  to  answer 
her  was  a  torture.  He  dreaded  a  snub  appallingly,  and 
bridled  in  anticipation.  Furious  with  himself  for  his  in- 
ability to  use  each  precious  opportunity,  he  pretended  he 
didn't  care.  The  consequence  was  that  when  she  once 
spoke  to  him  sweetly,  he  was  too  overpowered  to  respond 
as  he  might  have  done.  That  she  had  not  even  noticed 
his  anguished  attitude  never  occurred  to  him. 

"We're  always  friends,  aren't  we,  Tommy?" 

"Rather,"  he  blurted,  before  he  could  regain  his  com- 
posure for  a  longer  sentence. 

"And  always  will  be,  won't  we?" 

"Rather,"  he  repeated,  cursing  himself  later  for  think- 
ing of  nothing  better  to  say.  Then,  just  as  she  flew  off 
in  that  dancing  way  of  hers,  he  found  his  tongue.  Out 
of  the  jumbled  mass  of  phrases  in  his  head  three  words 
got  loose  and  offered  themselves  :  "We'll  always  be !"  he 
flung  at  her  retreating  figure  of  intolerable  beauty.  And 
she  turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  waved  her  hand 
without  stopping  her  career,  and  shouted  "Rather !" 

That  was  the  Tuesday  in  his  calendar.  But  on  Satur- 
day, the  printed  Saturday  following  it,  the  second  char- 
acteristic of  his  dream  announced  itself:  he  recognized 
the  Eyes  !  Why  he  had  not  recognized  them  on  the  Tues- 
day lay  beyond  explanation ;  he  only  knew  it  was  so. 
And  afterwards,  when  he  tried  to  think  it  over,  it  struck 
him  that  she  had  scampered  out  of  the  hall  with  peculiar 
speed  and  hurry;  had  made  her  escape  without  the  extra 
word  or  tWo  the  occasion  naturally  demanded — almost  as 
though  she,  too,  felt  something  that  uneasily  surprised 
her. 

Tommy  wondered  about  it  till  his  head  spun  round. 
She,  too,  had  received  an  impact  that  was  shock.  He  was 


The  Wave  31 


as  thorough  about  it  as  an  instinctive  scientist.  He  also 
registered  this  further  fact — that  the  dream-details  had 
not  entirely  reproduced  themselves  in  the  affair.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  Whiff  or  of  the  other  pair  of  Eyes. 
Some  day  the  three  would  come  together;  but  then.  .  .  . 

The  main  thing,  however,  undoubtedly  was  this :  Let- 
tice  felt  something  too :  she  was  aware  of  feelings  similar 
to  his  own.  He  was  too  honest  to  assume  that  she  felt 
exactly  what  he  felt ;  he  only  knew  that  her  eyes  betrayed 
familiar  intimacy  when  she  said  "Don't  forget  me, 
Tommy,"  and  that  when  she  rushed  out  of  the  hall  with 
that  unnecessary  abruptness,  it  was  because — well,  he 
could  only  transfer  to  her  some  degree  of  the  "wavy" 
feeling  in  himself. 

And  he  fell  in  love  with  abandonment  and  a  delicious, 
infinite  yearning.  From  that  moment  he  thought  of  him- 
self  as  Tom  instead  of  Tommy. 

It  was  an  entire,  sweeping  love  that  left  no  atom  or 
corner  of  his  being  untouched.  Lettice  was  real ;  she  hid 
below  the  horizon  of  distant  France,  yet  could  not,  did 
not,  hide  from  him.  She  also  waited. 

He  knew  the  difference  between  real  and  unreal  people. 
The  latter  wavered  about  his  life  and  were  uncertain; 
sometimes  he  liked  them,  sometimes  he  did  not;  but  the 
former — remained  fixed  quantities:  he  could  not  alter 
towards  them.  Even  at  this  stage  he  knew  when  a  person 
came  into  his  life  to  stay,  or  merely  to  pass  out  again. 
Lettice,  though  seen  but  twice,  belonged  to  this  first 
category.  His  feeling  for  her  had  the  Wave  in  it;  it 
gathered  weight  and  mass ;  it  was  irresistible.  From  the 
dim,  invisible  foundations  of  his  life  it  came,  out  of  the 
foundations  of  the  world,  out  of  that  inexhaustible  sea- 
foundation  that  lay  below  everything.  It  was  real ;  it  was 
not  to  be  avoided.  He  knew.  He  persuaded  himself 
that  she  knew  too. 

And  it  was  then,  realizing  for  the  first  time  the  search- 
ing pain  of  being  separated  from  something  that  seemed 


32  The  Wave 

part  of  his  being  by  natural  right,  he  spoke  to  his  father 
and  asked  if  pain  should  be  avoided.  This  conversation 
has  been  already  sufficiently  recorded ;  but  he  asked  other 
things  as  well.  From  being  so  long  on  the  level  he  had 
made  a  sudden  jump  that  his  father  had  foretold ;  he  grew 
up;  his  mind  began  to  think;  he  had  peered  into  certain 
books;  he  analyzed.  Out  of  the  nonsense  of  his  specu- 
lative reflections  the  doctor  pounced  on  certain  points  that 
puzzled  him  completely.  Probing  for  the  repressed  ele- 
ments in  the  boy's  psychic  life  that  caused  the  triple  com- 
plex of  Wave  and  Eyes  and  Whiff,  he  only  saw  the  cause 
receding  further  and  further  from  his  grasp  until  it  finally 
lost  itself  in  ultimate  obscurity.  The  disciple  of  Freud 
was  baffled  hopelessly.  .  .  . 

Tom,  meanwhile,  bathed  in  a  sea  of  new  sensations. 
Distance  held  meaning  for  him,  separation  was  a  kind  of 
keen  starvation.  He  made  discoveries — watched  the 
moon  rise,  heard  the  wind,  and  knew  the  stars  shone  over 
the  meadows  below  the  house — things  that  before  had 
been  merely  commonplace.  He  pictured  these  details  as 
they  might  occur  in  France,  and  once  when  he  saw  a 
Swallow  Tail  butterfly,  knowing  that  the  few  English 
specimens  were  said  to  have  crossed  the  Channel,  he  had 
a  touch  of  ecstasy,  as  though  the  proud  insect  brought 
him  a  message  from  the  fields  below  the  Finishing  School. 
Also  he  read  French  books  and  found  the  language  diffi- 
cult but  exquisite.  All  sweet  and  lovely  things  came  from 
France,  and  at  school  he  attempted  violent  friendships 
with  three  French  boys  and  the  Foreign  Language  mas- 
ters, friendships  that  were  not  appreciated  because  they 
were  not  understood.  But  he  made  progress  with  the 
language,  and  it  stood  him  in  good  stead  in  his  examina- 
tions. He  was  aiming  now  at  an  Engineering  College. 
He  passed  in — eventually — brilliantly  enough. 

Before  that  satisfactory  moment,  however,  he  knew 
difficult  times.  His  inner  life  was  in  a  splendid  tumult. 
From  the  books  he  purloined  he  read  a  good  many  facts 


The  Wave  33 

concerning  waves  and  wave-formation.  He  learned, 
among  other  things,  that  all  sensory  impressions  reached 
the  nerves  by  impact  of  force  in  various  wave-lengths; 
heat,  light  and  sound  broke  upon  the  skin  and  eyes  and 
ears  in  vibrations  of  aether  or  air  that  advanced  in  steady 
series  of  wavy  formations  which,  though  not  quite  similar 
to  his  dream-wave,  were  akin  to  it.  Sensation,  which  is 
life,  was  thus  linked  on  to  his  deepest,  earliest  memory. 

A  wave,  however,  instantly  rejoined  the  parent  stock 
and  formed  again.  And  perhaps  it  was  the  repetition  of 
the  wave — its  forming  again  and  breaking  again — that 
impressed  him  most.  For  he  imagined  his  impulses,  emo- 
tions, tendencies,  all  taking  this  wave-form,  sweeping  his 
moods  up  to  a  certain  point,  then  dropping  back  into  his 
center — the  Sea,  he  called  it — which  held  steady  below 
all  temporary  fluctuations — only  to  form  once  more  and 
happen  all  over  again. 

With  his  moral  and  spiritual  life  it  was  similar :  a  wind 
came,  wind  of  desire,  wind  of  yearning,  wind  of  hope, 
and  he  felt  his  strength  accumulating,  rising,  bending  with 
power  upon  the  object  that  he  had  in  view.  To  take  that 
object  exactly  at  the  top  of  the  wave  was  to  achieve  suc- 
cess; to  miss  that  moment  was  to  act  with -a  receding  and 
diminishing  power,  to  dissipate  himself  in  foam  and  spray 
before  he  could  retire  for  a  second  rise.  He  saw  exis- 
tence as  a  wave.  Life  itself  was  a  wave  that  rose,  swept, 
curved,  and  finally — must  break. 

He  merely  visualized  these  feelings  into  pictures;  he 
did  not  think  them  out,  nor  get  them  into  words.  The 
wave  became  symbolic  to  him  of  all  life's  energies.  It 
was  the  way  in  which  all  sensation  expressed  itself.  Let- 
tice  was  the  high-water  mark  on  shore  he  longed  to  reach 
and  sweep  back  into  his  own  tumultuous  being.  In  that 
great  underneath,  the  Sea,  they  belonged  eternally  to- 
gether. .  .  . 

One  thing,  however,  troubled  him'  exceedingly :  he  read 
that  a  wave  was  a  segment  of  a  circle,  the  perfect  form, 


34  The  Wave 

yet  that  it  never  completed  itself.  The  ground  on  which 
it  broke  prevented  the  achievement  of  the  circle.  That,  he 
felt,  was  a  pity,  and  might  be  serious ;  there  was  always 
that  sinister  retirement  for  another  effort  that  yet  never 
did,  and  never  could,  result  in  complete  achievement.  He 
watched  the  waves  a  good  deal  on  the  shore,  when  oc- 
casion offered  in  the  holidays — they  came  from  France ! — • 
and  made  a  discovery  on  his  own  account  that  was  not 
mentioned  in  any  of  the  books.  And  it  was  this :  that  the 
top  of  the  wave,  owing  to  its  curve,  was  reflected  in  the 
under  part.  Its  end,  that  is,  was  foretold  in  its  beginning. 

There  was  a  want  of  scientific  accuracy  here,  a  con- 
fusion of  time  and  space,  perhaps,  yet  he  noticed  the  idea 
and  registered  the  thrill.  At  the  moment  when  the  wave 
was  poised  to  fall  its  crest  shone  reflected  in  the  base 
from  which  it  rose. 

But  the  more  he  watched  the  waves  on  the  shore,  the 
more  puzzled  he  became.  They  seemed  merely  a  move- 
ment of  the  sea  itself.  They  endlessly  repeated  themselves. 
They  had  no  true,  separate  existence  until  they — broke. 
Nor  could  he  determine  whether  the  crest  or  the  base 
was  the  beginning,  for  the  two  ran  along  together,  and 
what  was  above  one  minute  was  below  the  minute  after. 
Which  part  started  first  he  never  could  decide.  The  head 
kept  chasing  the  tail  in  an  effort  to  join  up.  Only  when 
a  wave  broke  and  fell  was  it  really — a  wave.  It  had  to 
"happen"  to  earn  its  name. 

There  were  ripples  too.  These  indicated  the  direction 
of  the  parent  wave  upon  whose  side  they  happened,  but 
not  its  purpose.  Moods  were  ripples :  they  varied  the 
surface  of  life  but  did  not  influence  its  general  direction. 

His  own  life  followed  a  similar  behavior;  he  was  full 
of  ripples  that  were  forever  trying  to  complete  themselves 
by  happening  in  acts.  But  the  main  Wave  was  the  thing 
— end  and  beginning  sweeping  along  together,  both  at  the 
same  time  somehow.  That  is,  he  knew  the  end  and  could 
foretell  it.  It  rose  from  the  great  "beneath"  which  was 


The  Wave  35 

the  sea  in  him.  It  must  topple  over  in  the  end  and  com- 
plete itself.  He  knew  it  would;  he  knew  it  would  hurt; 
he  knew  also  that  he  would  not  shirk  it  when  it  came. 
For  it  was  a  repetition  somehow. 

"I  jolly  well  mean  to  enjoy  the  smash,"  he  felt.  "I 
know  one  pair  of  Eyes  already;  there's  only  the  Whiff 
and  the  other  Eyes  to  come.  The  moment  I  find  them, 
I'll  go  bang  into  it."  He  experienced  a  delicious  shiver 
at  the  prospect. 

One  thing,  however,  remained  uncertain :  the  stuff  the 
Wave  was  made  of.  Once  he  discovered  that,  he  would 
discover  also — where  the  smash  would  come. 


CHAPTER   IV 

CAN  a  chap  feel  things  coming  ?"  he  asked  his  father. 
He  was  perhaps  fifteen  or  sixteen  then.     "I  mean, 
when  you  feel  them  coming,  does  that  mean  they  must 
come?" 

His  father  listened  warily.  There  had  been  many  simi- 
lar questions  lately. 

"You  can  feel  ordinary  things  coming,"  he  replied; 
"things  due  to  association  of  ideas." 

Tom  looked  up.  "Associations?"  he  queried  uncer- 
tainly. 

"If  you  feel  hungry,"  explained  the  doctor,  "you  know 
that  dinner's  coming;  you  associate  the  hunger  with  the 
idea  of  eating.  You  recognize  them  because  you've  felt 
them  both  together  before." 

"They  ought  to  come,  then  ?" 

"Dinner  does  come — ordinarily  speaking.  You've 
learned  to  expect  it  from  the  hunger.  You  could,  of 
course,  prevent  it  coming,"  he  added  dryly,  "only  that 
would  be  bad  for  you.  You  need  it." 

Tom  reflected  a  moment  with  a  puckered  face.  His 
father  waited  for  him  to  ask  more,  hoping  he  would.  The 
boy  felt  the  sympathy  and  invitation. 

"Before"  he  repeated,  picking  out  the  word  with  sud- 
den emphasis,  his  mind  evidently  breaking  against  a  prob- 
lem. "But  if  I  felt  hungry  for  something  I  hadn't  had 
before ?" 

"In  that  case  you  wouldn't  call  it  hunger.  You  wouldn't 
know  what  to  call  it.  You'd  feel  a  longing  of  some  kind 
and  would  wonder  what  it  meant." 

36 


The  Wave  37 

Tom's  next  words  surprised  him  considerably.  They 
came  promptly,  but  with  slow  and  thoughtful  emphasis. 

"So  that  if  I  know  what  I  want,  and  call  it  dinner,  or 
pain,  or — love,  or  something,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  means 
that  I've  had  it  before?  And  that's  why  I  know  it."  The 
last  five  words  were  not  a  question  but  a  statement  of 
fact  apparently. 

The  doctor  pretended  not  to  notice  the  variants  of  din- 
ner. At  least  he  did  not  draw  attention  to  them. 

"Not  necessarily,"  he  answered.  "The  things  you  feel 
you  want  may  be  the  things  that  everybody  wants — things 
common  to  the  race.  Such  wants  are  naturally  in  your 
blood;  you  feel  them  because  your  parents,  your  grand- 
parents, and  all  humanity  in  turn  behind  your  own  par- 
ticular family  have  always  wanted  them." 

"They  come  out  of  the  sea,  you  mean  ?" 

"That's  very  well  expressed,  Tom.  They  come  out  of 
the  sea  of  human  nature,  which  is  everywhere  the  same, 
yes." 

The  compliment  seemed  to  annoy  the  boy. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  bluntly.  "But— if  it  hurts?"  The 
words  were  sharply  emphasized. 

"Association  of  ideas  again.  Toothache  suggests  the 
pincers.  You  want  to  get  rid  of  the  pain,  but  the  pain  has 
to  get  worse  before  it  can  get  better.  You  know  that,  so 
you  face  it  gladly — to  get  it  over." 

"You  face  it,  yes,"  said  Tom.  "It  makes  you  better  in 
the  end." 

It  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  his  learned  father 
knew  nothing,  nothing  at  least  that  could  help  him.  He 
knew  only  what  other  people  knew.  He  turned  then,  and 
asked  the  ridiculous  question  that  lay  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  all  the  time.  It  cost  him  an  effort,  for  his  father 
would  certainly  deem  it  foolish. 

"Can  a  thing  happen  before  it  really  happens?" 

Dr.  Kelverdon  may  or  may  not  have  thought  the  ques- 
tion foolish;  his  face  was  hidden  a  moment  as  he  bent 


38  The  Wave 

down  to  put  the  Indian  rug  straight  with  his  hand.  There 
was  no  impatience  in  the  movement,  nor  was  there  mock- 
ery in  his  expression,  when  he  resumed  his  normal  posi- 
tion. He  had  gained  an  appreciable  interval  of  time — 
some  fifteen  seconds.  "Tom,  you've  got  good  ideas  in 
that  head  of  yours,"  he  said  calmly ;  "but  what  is  it  that 
you  mean  exactly?" 

Tom  was  quite  ready  to  amplify.  He  knew  what  he 
meant : 

"If  I  know  something  is  going  to  happen,  doesn't  that 
mean  that  it  has  already  happened — and  that  I  remember 
it?" 

"You're  a  psychologist  as  well  as  engineer,  Tom,"  was 
the  approving  reply.  "It's  like  this,  you  see :  an  emotion, 
with  desire  in  it,  can  predict  the  fulfilment  of  that  desire. 
In  great  hunger  you  imagine  you're  eating  all  sorts  of 
good  things." 

"But  that's  looking  forward,"  the  boy  pounced  on  the 
mistake.  "It's  not  remembering." 

"That  is  the  difficulty,"  explained  his  father ;  "to  decide 
whether  you're  anticipating  only — or  actually  remember- 
ing/' 

"I  see,"  Tom  said  politely. 

All  this  analysis  concealed  merely:  it  did  not  reveal. 
The  thing  itself  dived  deeper  out  of  sight  with  every 
phrase.  He  knew  quite  well  the  difference  between  an- 
ticipating and  remembering.  With  the  latter  there  was 
the  sensation  of  having  been  through  it.  Each  time  he 
remembered  seeing  Lettice  the  sensation  was  the  same, 
but  when  he  looked  forward  to  seeing  her  again  the  sen- 
sation varied  with  his  mood. 

"For  instance,  Tom — between  ourselves  this — we're 
going  to  send  Mary  to  that  Finishing  School  in  France 
where  Lettice  is."  The  doctor,  it  seemed,  spoke  carelessly 
while  he  gathered  his  papers  together  with  a  view  to  go- 
ing out.  He  did  not  look  at  the  boy ;  he  said  it  walking 


The  Wave  39 

about  the  room.  "Mary  will  look  forward  to  it  so  much 
and  think  about  it  that  when  she  gets  there  it  will  seem  a 
little  familiar  to  her,  as  if — almost  as  if  she  remem- 
bered it." 

"Thank  you,  father ;  I  see,  yes,"  murmured  Tom.  But 
in  his  mind  a  voice  said  so  distinctly  "Rot !"  that  he  was 
half  afraid  the  word  was  audible. 

"You  see  the  difficulty,  eh?    And  the  difference?" 

"Rather,"  exclaimed  the  boy  with  decision. 

And  thereupon,  without  the  slightest  warning,  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  asked  certain  other  ques- 
tions. Evidently  they  cost  him  effort;  his  will  forced 
them  out.  Since  his  back  was  turned  he  did  not  see  his 
father's  understanding  smile,  but  neither  did  the  latter  see 
the  lad's  crimson  cheeks,  though  possibly  he  divined  them. 

"Father — is  Miss  Aylmer  older  than  me  ?" 

"Ask  Mary,  Tom.  She'll  know.  Or,  stay— I'll  ask  her 
for  you — if  you  like." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  just  wanted  to  know,"  with  an 
assumed  indifference  that  only  just  concealed  the  tremor 
in  the  voice. 

"I  suppose,"  came  a  moment  later,  "a  Member  of  Par- 
liament is  a  grander  thing  than  a  doctor,  is  it  ?" 

"That  depends,"  replied  his  father,  "upon  the  man  him- 
self. Some  M.P.'s  vote  as  they're  told,  and  never  open 
their  mouths  in  the  House.  Some  doctors,  again " 

But  the  boy  interrupted  him.  He  quite  understood  the 
point. 

"It's  fine  to  be  an  engineer,  though,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 
"It's  a  real  profession?" 

"The  world  couldn't  get  along  without  them,  or  the 
Government  either.  It's  a  most  important  profession 
indeed." 

Tom,  playing  idly  with  the  swinging  tassel  of  the  win- 
dow-blind, asked  one  more  question.  His  voice  and 
manner  were  admirably  under  control,  but  there  was  a 
gulp,  and  his  father  heard  and  noted  it. 


40  The  Wave 

"Shall  I  have — shall  I  be  rich  enough — to  marry — some 
day?" 

Dr.  Kelverdon  crossed  the  room  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  son's  shoulder,  but  did  not  try  to  make  him  show  his 
face.  "Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  will,  my  boy — when 
the  time  comes."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  added: 
"But  money  will  not  make  you  a  distinguished  man, 
whereas  if  you  become  a  famous  engineer,  you'll  have 
money  of  your  own  and — any  nice  girl  would  be  proud  to 
have  you." 

"I  see,"  said  Tom,  tying  the  strings  of  the  tassel  into 
knots,  then  untying  them  again  with  a  visible  excess  of 
energy — and  the  conversation  came  somewhat  abruptly  to 
an  end.  He  was  aware  of  the  invitation  to  talk  further 
about  Lettice  Aylmer,  but  he  resisted  and  declined  it. 
What  was  the  use  ?  He  knew  his  own  mind  already  about 
that. 

Yet,  strictly  speaking,  Tom  was  not  imaginative.  It 
was  as  if  an  instinct  taught  him.  More  and  more,  the 
Wave,  with  its  accompanying  details  of  Eyes  and  Whiff, 
seemed  to  him  the  ghost  of  some  dim  memory  that 
brought  a  forgotten  warning  in  its  train — something 
missed,  something  to  be  repeated,  something  to  be  faced 
and  learned  and — mastered.  .  .  . 

His  father,  meanwhile,  went  forth  upon  his  rounds 
that  day,  much  preoccupied  about  the  character  of  his 
eldest  boy.  He  felt  a  particular  interest  in  the  peculiar 
obsession  that  he  knew  overshadowed  the  young,  growing 
life.  It  puzzled  him ;  he  found  no  clue  to  it ;  in  his  thought 
he  was  aware  of  a  faint  uneasiness,  although  he  did  not 
give  it  a  definite  name — something  akin  to  what  the 
mother  felt.  Admitting  he  was  baffled,  he  fell  back,  how- 
ever, upon  such  generalities  as  prenatal  influence,  ances- 
tral, racial,  and  so  eventually  dismissed  it  from  his  active 
mind. 

Tom,  meanwhile,  for  his  part,  also  went  along  his  steep, 


The  Wave  41 

predestined  path.  The  nightmare  had  entirely  deserted 
him,  he  now  rarely  dreamed ;  and  his  outer  life  shaped 
bravely,  as  with  a  boy  of  will,  honesty,  and  healthy  ambi- 
tion might  be  expected.  Neither  wavy  feeling,  eyes,  nor 
whiff  obtruded  themselves:  they  left  him  alone  and 
waited :  he  never  forgot  them,  but  he  did  not  seek  them 
out.  Things  once  firmly  realized  remained  in  his  con- 
sciousness ;  he  knew  that  his  life  was  rising  like  a  wave, 
that  all  his  energies  worked  in  the  form  of  waves,  his 
moods  and  wishes,  his  passions,  emotions,  yearnings — all 
expressed  themselves  by  means  of  this  unalterable  for- 
mula, yet  all  contributed  finally  to  the  one  big  important 
Wave  whose  climax  would  be  reached  only  when  it  fell. 
He  distinguished  between  Wave  and  Ripples.  He,  there- 
fore, did  not  trouble  himself  with  imaginary  details;  he 
did  not  search ;  he  waited.  This  steady  strength  was  his. 
His  firm,  square  jaw  and  the  fearless  eyes  of  gray  beneath 
the  shock  of  straight  dark  hair  told  plainly  enough  the 
kind  of  stuff  behind  them.  No  one  at  school  took  un- 
necessary liberties  with  Tom  Kelverdon. 

But,  having  discovered  one  pair  of  Eyes,  he  did  not  let 
them  go.  In  his  earnest,  dull,  inflexible  way  he  loved 
their  owner  with  a  belief  in  her  truth  and  loyalty  that  ad- 
mitted of  no  slightest  question.  Had  his  mother  divined 
the  strength  and  value  of  his  passion,  she  would  surely 
have  asked  herself  with  painful  misgiving:  "Is  she — can 
she  be — worthy  of  my  boy  ?"  But  his  mother  guessed  it 
as  little  as  any  one  else;  even  the  doctor  had  forgotten 
those  early  signs  of  its  existence;  and  Tom  was  not  the 
kind  to  make  unnecessary  confidences,  nor  to  need  sym- 
pathy in  any  matter  he  was  sure  about. 

There  was  down  now  upon  his  upper  lip,  for  he  was 
close  upon  seventeen  and  the  Entrance  Examination  was 
rising  to  the  crest  of  its  particular  minor  wave,  yet  during 
the  two  years'  interval  nothing — no  single  fact — had  oc- 
curred to  justify  his  faith  or  to  confirm  its  amazing  cer- 


42  The  Wave 

tainty  within  his  heart.  Mary,  his  sister,  had  not  gone 
after  all  to  the  Finishing  School  in  France;  other  girl 
friends  came  to  spend  the  holidays  with  her;  the  Irish 
member  of  Parliament  had  either  died  or  sunk  into  an- 
other kind  of  oblivion;  the  paths  of  the  Kelverdons  and 
the  Aylmer  family  had  gone  apart ;  and  the  name  of  Let- 
tice  no  longer  thrilled  the  air  across  the  tea-table,  nor 
chance  reports  of  her  doings  filled  the  London  house  with 
sudden  light.' 

Yet  for  Tom  she  existed  more  potently  than  ever.  His 
yearning  never  lessened;  he  was  sure  she  remembered 
him  as  he  remembered  her;  he  persuaded  himself  that 
she  thought  about  him;  she  doubtless  knew  that  he  was 
going  to  be  an  engineer.  He  had  cut  a  thread  from  the 
carpet  in  the  hall — from  the  exact  spot  her  flying  foot  had 
touched  that  Tuesday  when  she  scampered  off  from  him 
— and  kept  it  in  the  drawer  beside  the  Eastern  packet 
that  enshrined  the  Whiff.  Occasionally  he  took  it  out  and 
touched  it,  fingered  it,  even  caressed  it;  the  thread  and 
the  perfume  belonged  together;  the  ritual  of  the  childish 
years  altered  a  little — worship  raised  it  to  a  higher  level. 

He  saw  her  with  her  hair  done  up  now,  long  skirts, 
and  a  softer  expression  in  the  tender,  faithful  eyes;  the 
tomboy  in  her  had  disappeared;  she  gazed  at  him  with 
admiration.  The  face  was  oddly  real,  it  came  very  close 
to  his  own;  once  or  twice,  indeed,  their  cheeks  almost 
touched:  "almost,"  because  he  withdrew  instantly,  un- 
easily aware  that  he  had  gone  too  far — not  that  the  inti- 
macy was  unwelcome,  but  that  it  was  somehow  prema- 
ture. And  the  instant  he  drew  back,  a  kind  of  lightning 
distance  came  between  them;  he  saw  her  eyes  across  an 
immense  and  curious  interval,  though  whether  of  time  or 
space  he  could  not  tell.  There  was  strange  heat  and  radi- 
ance in  it — as  of  some  blazing  atmosphere  that  was  not 
England. 

The  eyes,  moreover,  held  a  new  expression  when  this 
happened — pity.  And  with  this  pity  came  also  pain :  the 


The  Wave  43 

strange,  rich  pain  broke  over  all  the  other  happier  feelings 
in  him  and  swamped  them  utterly.  .  .  . 

But  at  that  point  instinct  failed  him ;  he  could  not  un- 
derstand why  she  should  pity  him,  why  pain  should  come 
to  him  through  her,  nor  why  it  was  necessary  for  him 
to  feel  and  face  it.  He  only  felt  sure  of  one  thing — that 
it  was  essential  to  the  formation  of  the  Wave  which  was 
his  life.  The  Wave  must  "happen,"  or  he  would  miss  an 
important  object  of  his  being — and  she  would  somehow 
miss  it  too.  The  Wave  would  one  day  fall,  but  when  it 
fell  she  would  be  with  him,  by  his  side,  under  the  mighty 
curve,  involved  in  the  crash  and  tumult — with  himself. 


CHAPTER   V 

THEN,  without  any  warning,  he  received  a  second 
shock — it  fell  upon  him  from  the  blue  and  came  di- 
rect from  Lettice. 

The  occasion  was  a  tennis  party  in  the  garden  by  the 
sea  where  the  family  had  come  to  spend  the  summer 
holidays.  Tom  was  already  at  College,  doing  brilliantly, 
and  rapidly  growing  up.  The  August  afternoon  was  very 
hot;  no  wind  ruffled  the  quiet  blue-green  water;  there 
were  no  waves ;  the  leaves  of  the  privet  hedge  upon  the 
side  of  the  cliffs  were  motionless.  A  couple  of  Chalk- 
Blues  danced  round  and  round  each  other  as  though  a 
wire  connected  them,  and  Tom,  walking  in  to  tea  with  his 
partner  after  a  victorious  game,  found  himself  watching 
the  butterflies  and  making  a  remark  about  them — a  chance 
observation  merely  to  fill  an  empty  pause.  He  felt  as 
little  interest  in  the  insects  as  he  did  in  his  partner,  an 
uncommonly  pretty,  sunburned  girl,  whose  bare  arms  and 
hatless  light  hair  became  her  admirably.  She,  however, 
approved  of  the  remark  and  by  no  means  despised  the 
opportunity  to  linger  a  moment  by  the  side  of  her  com- 
panion. They  stood  together,  perhaps  a  dozen  seconds, 
watching  the  capricious  scraps  of  color  rise,  float  over  the 
privet  hedge  on  balanced  wings,  dip  abruptly  down  and 
vanish  on  the  further  side  below  the  cliff.  The  girl  said 
something — an  intentional  something  that  was  meant  to 
be  heard  and  answered :  but  no  answer  was  forthcoming. 
She  repeated  the  remark  with  emphasis ;  then,  as  still  no 
answer  came,  she  laughed  brightly  to  make  his  silence  ap- 
pear natural. 

But  Tom  had  no  word  to  say.  He  had  not  noticed  the 
maneuver  of  the  girl,  nor  the  maneuver  of  the  two 

44 


The  Wave  45 

Chalk-Blues;  neither  had  he  heard  the  words,  although 
conscious  that  she  spoke.  For  in  that  brief  instant  when 
the  insects  floated  over  the  hedge,  his  eyes  had  wandered 
beyond  them  to  the  sea,  and  on  the  sea,  far  off  against  the 
cloudless  horizon,  he  had  seen — the  Wave. 

Thinking  it  over  afterwards,  however,  he  realized  that 
it  was  not  actually  a  wave  he  saw,  for  the  surface  of  the 
blue-green  sea  was  smooth  as  the  tennis  lawn  itself:  it 
was  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  "wavy  feeling"  that 
made  him  think  he  saw  the  old,  familiar  outline  of  his 
early  dream.  He  had  objectified  his  emotion.  His  father 
perhaps  would  have  called  it  association  of  ideas. 

Abruptly,  out  of  nothing  obvious,  the  feeling  rose  and 
mastered  him :  and,  after  its  quiescence — its  absence — for 
so  long  an  interval,  this  revival  without  hint  or  warning 
of  any  kind  was  disconcerting.  The  feeling  was  vivid 
and  unmistakable.  The  joy  and  terror  swept  him  as  of 
old.  He  braced  himself.  Almost — he  bagan  shuffling 
with  his  feet.  .  .  . 

"Tea's  waiting  for  you,"  his  mother's  voice  floated  to 
his  ears  across  the  lawn,  as  he  turned  with  an  effort  from 
the  sea  and  made  towards  the  group  about  the  tables. 
The  Wave,  he  knew,  was  coming  up  behind  him,  growing, 
rising,  curving  high  against  the  evening  sky.  Beside  him 
walked  the  sunburned  girl,  wondering  doubtless  at  his 
silence,  but  happy  enough,  it  seemed,  in  her  own  interpre- 
tation of  its  cause.  Scarcely  aware  of  her  presence,  how- 
ever, Tom  was  searching  almost  fiercely  in  his  thoughts, 
searching  for  the  clue.  He  knew  there  was  a  clue,  he  felt 
sure  of  it ;  the  "wavy  feeling"  had  not  come  with  this  over- 
whelming suddenness  without  a  reason.  Something  had 
brought  it  back.  But  what  ?  Was  there  any  recent  factor 
in  his  life  that  might  explain  it?  He  stole  a  swift  glance 
at  the  girl  beside  him :  had  she,  perhaps,  to  do  with  it  ? 
They  had  played  tennis  together  for  the  first  time  that 
afternoon:  he  had  never  seen  her  before,  was  not  even 
quite  sure  what  her  name  was;  to  him,  so  far,  she  was 


46  The  Wave 

only  "a  very  pretty  girl  who  played  a  ripping  game." 
Had  this  girl  to  do  with  it  ? 

Feeling  his  questioning  look,  she  glanced  up  at  him  and 
smiled.  "You're  very  absent-minded,"  she  observed  with 
mischief  in  her  manner.  "You  took  so  many  of  my  balls, 
it's  tired  you  out !"  She  had  beautiful  blue  eyes,  and  her 
voice,  he  noticed  for  the  first  time,  was  very  pleasant. 
Her  figure  was  slim,  her  ankles  neat,  she  had  nice,  even 
teeth.  But,  even  as  he  registered  the  charming  details,  he 
knew  quite  well  that  he  registered  them,  one  and  all,  as 
belonging  merely  to  a  member  of  the  sex,  and  not  to  this 
girl  in  particular.  For  all  he  cared,  she  might  follow  the 
two  Chalk-Blues  and  disappear  below  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
into  the  sea.  This  "pretty  girl"  left  him  as  untroubled 
as  she  found  him.  The  wavy  feeling  was  not  brought 
by  her. 

He  drank  his  tea,  keeping  his  back  to  the  sea,  and  as 
the  talk  was  lively,  his  silence  was  not  noticed.  The 
Wave,  meanwhile,  he  knew,  had  come  up  closer.  It  tow- 
ered above  him.  Its  presence  would  shortly  be  explained. 
Then,  suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  a  discussion  as  to  part- 
ners for  the  games  to  follow,  a  further  detail  presented 
itself — also  apparently  out  of  nothing.  He  smelt  the 
Whiff.  He  knew  then  that  the  Wave  was  poised  im- 
mediately above  his  head,  and  that  he  stood  underneath 
its  threatening  great  curve.  The  clue,  therefore,  was  at 
hand. 

And  at  this  moment  his  father  came  into  view,  moving 
across  the  lawn  towards  them  from  the  French  window. 
No  one  guessed  how  Tom  welcomed  the  slight  diversion, 
for  the  movement  was  already  in  his  legs  and  in  another 
moment  must  have  set  his  feet  upon  that  dreadful  shuf- 
fling. As  from  a  distance,  he  heard  the  formal  talk  and 
introductions,  his  father's  statement  that  he  had  won  his 
round  of  golf  with  "the  Dean,"  praise  of  the  weather, 
and  something  or  other  about  the  strange  stillness  of  the 
sea — but  then,  with  a  sudden,  hollow  crash  against  his 


The  Wave  47 

very  ear,  the  appalling  words :  ".  .  .  broke  his  mashie  into 
splinters,  yes.  And,  by  the  by,  the  Dean  knows  the  Ayl- 
mers.  They  were  staying  here  earlier  in  the  summer,  he 
told  me.  Lettice,  the  girl, — Mary's  friend,  you  remember 
— is  going  to  be  married  this  week.  .  .  ." 

Tom  clutched  the  back  of  the  wicker-chair  in  front  of 
him.  The  sun  went  out.  An  icy  air  passed  up  his  spine. 
The  blood  drained  from  his  face.  The  tennis  courts,  and 
the  group  of  white  figures  moving  towards  them,  swung 
up  into  the  sky.  He  gripped  the  chair  till  the  rods  of 
wicker  pressed  through  the  flesh  into  the  bone.  For  a 
moment  he  felt  that  the  sensation  of  actual  sickness  was 
more  than  he  could  master;  his  legs  bent  like  paper  be- 
neath his  weight. 

"You  remember  Lettice,  Tom,  don't  you?"  his  father 
was  saying  somewhere  in  mid-air  above  him. 

"Yes,  rather."  Apparently  he  said  these  words;  the 
air  at  any  rate  went  through  his  teeth  and  lips,  and  the 
same  minute,  with  a  superhuman  effort  that  only  just 
escaped  a  stagger,  he  moved  away  towards  the  tennis 
courts.  His  feet  carried  him,  that  is,  across  the  lawn, 
where  some  figures  dressed  in  white  were  calling  his  name 
loudly;  his  legs  went  automatically.  "Hold  steady!"  he 
remembers  saying  somewhere  deep  inside  him.  "Don't 
make  an  ass  of  yourself";  whereupon  another  voice — or 
was  it  still  his  own? — joined  in  quickly,  "She's  gone  from 
me,  Lettice  has  gone.  She's  dead."  And  the  words,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  had  meaning:  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  rather,  he  realized  what  their  meaning  was. 
The  Wave  had  fallen.  Moreover — this  also  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  Wave — there  was  something 
audible.  He  heard  a  Sound. 

Shivering  in  the  hot  summer  sunshine,  as  though  icy 
water  drenched  him,  he  knew  the  same  instant  that  he 
was  wrong  about  the  falling:  the  Wave,  indeed,  had 
curled  lower  over  him  than  ever  before,  had  even  toppled 
— but  it  had  not  broken.  As  a  whole,  it  had  not  broken. 


48  The  Wave 

It  was  a  smaller  wave,  upon  the  parent  side,  that  had 
formed  and  fallen.  The  sound  he  heard  was  the  soft 
crash  of  this  lesser  wave  that  grew  out  of  the  greater 
mass  of  the  original  monster,  broke  upon  the  rising  vol- 
ume of  it,  and  returned  into  the  greater  body.  It  was 
a  ripple  only.  The  shock  and  terror  he  felt  were  a  fore- 
taste of  what  the  final  smothering  crash  would  be.  Yet 
the  Sound  he  had  heard  was  not  the  sound  of  water. 
There  was  a  sharp,  odd  rattling  in  it  that  he  had  never 
consciously  heard  before.  And  it  was — dry. 

He  reached  the  group  of  figures  on  the  tennis-courts: 
he  played :  a  violent  energy  had  replaced  the  sudden 
physical  weakness.  His  skill,  it  seemed,  astonished  every- 
body; he  drove  and  smashed  and  volleyed  with  a  reck- 
lessness that  was  always  accurate :  but  when,  at  the  end  of 
the  amazing  game,  he  heard  voices  praising  him,  as  from 
a  distance,  he  knew  only  that  there  was  a  taste  of  gall  and 
ashes  in  his  mouth,  and  that  he  had  but  one  desire — to 
get  to  his  room  alone  and  open  the  drawer.  Even  to  him- 
self he  would  not  admit  that  he  wished  for  the  relief  of 
tears.  He  put  it,  rather,  that  he  must  see  and  feel  the 
one  real  thing  that  still  connected  him  with  Lettice — the 
thread  of  carpet  she  had  trodden  on.  That — and  the 
"whiff" — alone  could  comfort  him. 

The  comedy,  that  is,  of  all  big  events  lay  in  it ;  no  one 
must  see,  no  one  must  know :  no  one  must  guess  the  ex- 
istence of  this  sweet,  rich  pain  that  ravaged  the  heart  in 
him  until  from  very  numbness  it  ceased  aching.  He 
double-locked  the  bedroom  door.  He  had  waited  till 
darkness  folded  away  the  staring  day,  till  the  long  dinner 
was  over,  and  the  drawn-out  evening  afterwards.  None, 
fortunately,  had  noticed  the  change  in  his  demeanor,  his 
silence,  his  absentmindedness  when  spoken  to,  his  want 
of  appetite.  "She  is  going  to  be  married  .  .  .  this  week," 
were  the  only  words  he  heard;  they  kept  ringing  in  his 
brain.  To  his  immense  relief  the  family  had  not  referred 
to  it  again. 


The  Wave  49 

And  at  last  he  had  said  good-night  and  was  in  his  room 
— alone.  The  drawer  was  open.  The  morsel  of  green 
thread  lay  in  his  hand.  The  faint  eastern  perfume  floated 
on  the  air.  "I  am  not  a  sentimental  ass,"  he  said  to  him- 
self aloud,  but  in  a  low,  steady  tone.  "She  touched  it, 
therefore  it  has  part  of  her  life  about  it  still."  Three 
years  and  a  half  ago!  He  examined  the  diary  too;  lived 
over  in  thought  every  detail  of  their  so  slight  acquain- 
tance together;  they  were  few  enough;  he  remembered 
every  one.  .  .  .  Prolonging  the  backward  effort,  he  re- 
viewed the  history  of  the  Wave.  His  mind  stretched  back 
to  his  earliest  recollections  of  the  nightmare.  He  faced 
the  situation,  tried  to  force  its  inner  meaning  from  it,  but 
without  success. 

He  did  not  linger  uselessly  upon  any  detail,  nor  did  he 
return  upon  his  traces  as  a  sentimental  youth  might  do, 
prolonging  the  vanished  sweetness  of  recollection  in  order 
to  taste  the  pain  more  vividly.  He  merely  "read  up,"  so 
to  speak,  the  history  of  the  Wave  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  it.  And  in  the  end  he  obtained  a  certain  satisfaction 
from  the  process — a  certain  strength.  That  is  to  say,  he 
did  not  understand,  but  he  accepted.  "Lettice  has  gone 
from  me — but  she  hasn't  gone  for  good."  The  deep  re- 
flection of  hours  condensed  itself  into  this. 

Whatever  might  happen  "temporarily,"  the  girl  was 
loyal  and  true  :  and  she  was — his.  It  never  once  occurred 
to  him  to  blame  or  chide  her.  All  that  she  did  sincerely, 
she  had  a  right  to  do.  They  were  in  the  "underneath" 
together  forever  and  ever.  They  were  in  the  sea. 

The  pain,  nevertheless,  was  acute  and  agonizing;  the 
temporary  separation  of  "France"  was  nothing  compared 
to  this  temporary  separation  of  her  marrying.  There 
were  alternate  intervals  of  numbness  and  of  acute  sensa- 
tion; for  each  time  thought  and  feeling  collapsed  from 
the  long  strain  of  their  own  tension,  the  relief  that  fol- 
lowed proved  false  and  vain.  Up  sprang  the  aching  pain 
again,  the  hungry  longing,  the  dull,  sweet  yearning — and 


50  The  Wave 

the  whole  sensation  started  afresh  as  at  the  first,  yet  with 
a  vividness  that  increased  with  each  new  realization  of  it. 
"Wish  I  could  cry  it  out,"  he  thought.  "I  wouldn't  be  a 
bit  ashamed  to  cry."  But  he  had  no  tears  to  spill.  .  .  . 

Midnight  passed  towards  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  small  hours  slipped  on  towards  the  dawn  be- 
fore he  put  away  the  parcel  of  tissue-paper,  closed  the 
drawer  and  locked  it.  And  when  at  length  he  dropped 
exhausted  into  bed,  the  eastern  sky  was  already  tinged 
with  the  crimson  of  another  summer's  day.  He  dreaded 
it,  and  closed  his  eyes.  It  had  tennis  parties  and  engage- 
ments in  its  wearisome,  long  hours  of  heat  and  utter 
emptiness.  .  .  . 

Just  before  actual  sleep  took  him,  however,  he  was 
aware  of  one  other  singular  reflection.  It  rose  of  its  own 
accord  out  of  that  moment's  calm  when  thought  and 
feeling  sank  away  and  deliberate  effort  ceased :  the  fact 
namely  that,  with  the  arrival  of  the  Sound,  all  his  five 
senses  had  been  now  affected.  His  entire  being,  through 
the  only  channels  of  perception  it  possessed,  had  re- 
sponded to  the  existence  of  the  Wave  and  all  it  might 
portend.  Here  was  no  case  of  a  single  sense  being  tricked 
by  some  illusion:  all  five  supported  each  other,  taste 
being,  of  course,  a  modification  of  smell. 

And  the  strange  reflection  brought  to  his  aching  mind 
and  weary  body  a  measure  of  relief.  The  Wave  was  real : 
being  real,  it  was  also  well  worth  facing  when  it — fell. 


CHAPTER   VI 

BETWEEN  twenty  and  thirty  a  man  rises  through 
years  reckless  of  power  and  spendthrift  of  easy 
promises.  The  wave  of  life  is  rising,  and  every  force 
tends  upwards  in  a  steady  rush.  At  thirty  comes  a  pause 
upon  the  level,  but  with  thirty-five  there  are  signs  of  the 
droop  downhill.  Age  is  first  realized  when,  instead  of 
looking  forward  only,  he  surprises  thought  in  the  act  of 
looking — behind. 

Of  the  physical,  at  any  rate,  this  is  true;  for  the  mental 
and  emotional  wave  is  still  ripening  towards  its  higher 
curve,  while  the  spiritual  crest  hangs  hiding  in  the  sky 
far  overhead,  beckoning  beyond  towards  unvistaed 
reaches. 

Tom  Kelverdon  climbed  through  these  crowded  years 
with  the  usual  scars  and  bruises,  but  steadily,  and  without 
the  shame  of  any  considerable  disaster.  His  father's 
influence  having  procured  him  an  opening  in  an  engineer- 
ing firm  of  the  first  importance,  his  own  talent  and  ap- 
plication maintained  the  original  momentum  bravely.  He 
justified  his  choice  of  a  profession.  Also,  staring  eagerly 
into  life's  marvelous  shop- window,  he  entered,  hand  in 
pocket,  and  made  the  customary  purchases  of  the  en- 
chantress behind  the  counter.  If  worthless,  well, — every- 
body bought  them ;  the  things  had  been  consummately  ad- 
vertised ;  he  paid  his  money,  found  out  their  value,  threw 
them  away  or  kept  them  accordingly.  A  certain  good 
taste  made  his  choice  not  too  foolish :  and  there  was  this 
wholesome  soundness  in  him,  that  he  rarely  repeated  a 
purchase  that  had  furnished  him  cheap  goods.  Slowly 
he  began  to  find  himself. 

5i 


52  The  Wave 

From  learning  what  it  meant  to  be  well  thrashed  by  a 
boy  he  loathed,  and  to  apply  a  similar  treatment  himself — 
he  passed  on  to  the  pleasure  of  being  told  he  had  nice  eyes, 
that  his  voice  was  pleasant,  his  presence  interesting.  He 
fell  in  love — and  out  again.  But  he  went  straight.  More- 
over, beyond  a  given  point  in  any  affair  of  the  heart  he 
seemed  unable  to  advance:  some  secret,  inner  tension 
held  him  back.  While  believing  he  loved  various  adorable 
girls  the  years  offered  him,  he  found  it  impossible  to  open 
his  lips  and  tell  them  so.  And  the  mysterious  instinct  in- 
variably justified  itself :  they  faded,  one  and  all,  soon  after 
separation.  There  was  no  wave  in  them;  they  were 
ripples  only.  .  .  . 

And,  meanwhile,  as  the  years  rushed  up  towards  the 
crest  of  thirty,  he  did  well  in  his  profession,  worked  for 
the  firm  in  many  lands,  obtained  the  confidence  of  his 
principals,  and  proved  his  steady  judgment  if  not  his 
brilliance.  He  became,  too,  a  good,  if  generous,  judge 
of  other  men,  seeing  all  sorts,  both  good  and  bad,  and  in 
every  kind  of  situation  that  proves  character.  His  na- 
ture found  excuses  too  easily,  perhaps,  for  the  unworthy 
ones.  It  is  not  a  bad  plan,  wiser  companions  hinted,  to 
realize  that  a  man  has  dark  behavior  in  him,  while  yet 
believing  that  he  need  not  necessarily  prove  it.  The  other 
view  has  something  childlike  in  it ;  Tom  Kelverdon  kept, 
possibly,  this  simpler  attitude  alive  in  him,  trusting  over- 
much, because  suspicion  was  abhorrent  to  his  soul.  The 
man  of  ideals  had  never  become  the  man  of  the  world. 
Some  high,  gentle  instinct  had  preserved  him  from  the 
infliction  that  so  often  results  in  this  regrettable  con- 
version. Slow  to  dislike,  he  saw  the  best  in  everybody. 
"Not  a  bad  fellow,"  he  would  say  of  some  one  quite  ob- 
viously detestable.  "I  admit  his  face  and  voice  and  man- 
ner are  against  him ;  but  that's  not  his  fault  exactly.  He 
didn't  make  himself,  you  know." 

The  idea  of  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  is  obvious, 


The  Wave  53 

familiar  enough.  Nations  rise  and  fall,  equally  with  the 
fortunes  of  a  family.  History  repeats  itself,  so  does  the 
tree,  the  rose :  and  if  a  man  live  long  enough  he  recovers 
the  state  of  early  childhood.  There  is  repetition  every- 
where. But  while  some  think  evolution  moves  in  a 
straight  line  forward,  others  speculate  fancifully  that  it 
has  a  spiral  twist  upwards.  At  any  given  moment,  that  is, 
the  soul  looks  down  upon  a  passage  made  before — but 
from  a  point  a  little  higher.  Without  living  through 
events  already  experienced,  it  literally  lives  them  over;  it 
sees  them  mapped  out  below,  and  with  the  bird's-eye  view 
it  understands  them. 

And  in  regard  to  his  memory  of  Lettice  Aylmer — the 
fact  that  he  was  still  waiting  for  her  and  she  for  him — 
this  was  somewhat  the  fanciful  conception  that  lodged 
itself,  subconsciously  perhaps,  in  the  mind  of  Tom  Kel- 
verdon,  grown  now  to  man's  estate.  He  was  dimly  aware 
of  a  curious  familiarity  with  his  present  situation,  a  sense 
of  repetition — yet  with  a  difference.  Something  he  had 
experienced  before  was  coming  to  him  again.  It  was 
waiting  for  him.  Its  wave  was  rising.  When  it  happened 
before  it  had  not  happened  properly  somehow — had  left  a 
sense  of  defeat,  of  dissatisfaction  behind.  He  had  taken 
it,  perhaps,  at  the  period  of  receding  momentum,  and  so 
had  failed  towards  it.  This  time  he  meant  to  face  it. 
His  own  phrase,  as  has  been  seen,  was  simple :  "I'll  let  it 
all  come."  It  was  something  his  character  needed.  Deep 
down  within  him  hid  this  attitude,  and  with  the  passage 
of  the  years  it  remained — but  remained  an  attitude 
merely. 

But  the  attitude,  being  subconscious  in  him,  developed 
into  a  definite  point  of  view  that  came,  more  and  more, 
to  influence  the  way  he  felt  towards  life  in  general.  Life 
was  too  active  to  allow  of  much  introspection,  yet  when- 
ever pauses  came — pauses  in  thought  and  feeling,  still 
backwaters  in  which  he  lay  without  positive  direction — 
there,  banked  up,  unchanging  in  the  background,  stood  the 


54  The  Wave 

enduring  thing:  his  love  for  Lettice  Aylmer.  And  this 
background  was  "the  sea"  of  his  boyhood  days,  the  "un- 
derneath" in  which  they  remained  unalterably  together. 
There,  too,  hid  the  four  signs  that  haunted  his  impres- 
sionable youth :  the  Wave,  the  other  Eyes,  the  Whiff,  the 
Sound.  In  due  course,  and  at  their  appointed  time,  they 
could  combine  and  "happen"  in  his  outward  life.  The 
Wave  would — fall. 

Meanwhile  his  sense  of  humor  had  long  ago  persuaded 
him  that,  so  far  as  any  claim  upon  the  girl  existed,  or  that 
she  reciprocated  his  own  deep  passion,  his  love-dream  was 
of  questionable  security.  The  man  in  him  that  built 
bridges  and  cut  tunnels  laughed  at  it;  the  man  that  de- 
vised these  first  in  imagination,  however,  believed  in  it, 
and  waited.  Behind  thought  and  reason,  suspected  of 
none  with  whom  he  daily  came  in  contact,  and  surprised 
only  by  himself  when  he  floated  in  these  silent,  tideless 
backwaters — it  persisted  with  an  amazing  conviction  that 
seemed  deathless.  In  these  calm  deeps  of  his  being,  se- 
curely anchored,  hid  what  he  called  the  "spiral"  attitude. 
The  thing  that  was  coming,  a  tragedy  whereof  that  child- 
ish nightmare  was  both  a  memory  and  a  premonition, 
clung  and  haunted  still  with  its  sense  of  dim  familiarity. 
Something  he  had  known  before  would  eventually  repeat 
itself.  But — with  a  difference ;  that  he  would  see  it  from 
above — from  a  higher  curve  of  the  ascending  spiral. 

There  lay  the  enticing  wonder  of  the  situation.  With 
his  present  English  temperament,  stolid  rather,  he  would 
meet  it  differently,  treat  it  otherwise,  learn  and  under- 
stand. He  would  see  it  from  another — higher — point  of 
view.  He  would  know  great  pain,  yet  some  part  of  him 
would  look  on,  compare,  accept  the  pain — and  smile.  The 
words  that  offered  themselves  were  that  he  had  "suffered 
blindly,"  but  suffered  with  fierce  and  bitter  resentment, 
savagely,  even  with  murder  in  his  heart ;  suffered,  more- 
over, somehow  or  other,  at  the  hands  of  Lettice  Aylmer. 

Lettice,  of  course, — he  clung  to  it  absurdly  still — was 


The  Wave  55 

true  and  loyal  to  him,  though  married  to  another.  Her 
name  was  changed.  But  Lettice  Aylmer  was  not  changed. 
And  this  mad  assurance,  though  he  kept  it  deliberately 
from  his  conscious  thoughts,  persisted  with  the  rest  of  the 
curious  business,  for  nothing,  apparently,  could  destroy  it 
in  him.  It  was  part  of  the  situation,  as  he  called  it,  part 
of  the  "sea,"  out  of  which  would  rise  eventually — the 
Wave. 

Outwardly,  meanwhile,  much  had  happened  to  him, 
each  experience  contributing  its  modifying  touch  to  the 
character  as  he  realized  it,  instead  of  merely  knowing 
that  it  came  to  others.  His  sister  married ;  Tim,  follow- 
ing his  father's  trade,  became  a  doctor  with  a  provincial 
practise,  buried  in  the  country.  His  father  died  suddenly 
while  he  was  away  in  Canada,  busy  with  a  prairie  railway 
across  the  wheat  fields  of  Assiniboia.  He  met  the  usual 
disillusions  in  a  series,  savored  and  mastered  them  more 
or  less  in  turn. 

He  was  in  England  when  his  mother  died;  and,  while 
his  other  experiences  were  ripples  only,  her  going  had 
the  wave  in  it.  The  enormous  mother-tie  came  also  out 
of  the  "sea" ;  its  dislocation  was  a  shock  of  fundamental 
kind,  and  he  felt  it  in  the  foundations  of  his  life.  It  was 
one  of  the  things  he  could  not  quite  realize.  He  still  felt 
her  always  close  and  near.  He  had  just  been  made  a 
junior  partner  in  the  firm ;  the  love  and  pride  in  her  eyes, 
before  they  faded  from  the  world  of  partnerships,  were 
unmistakable:  "Of  course,"  she  murmured,  her  thin 
hand  clinging  to  his  own,  "they  had  to  do  it  ...  if  only 
your  father  knew  .  .  ."  and  she  was  gone.  The  wave  of 
her  life  sank  back  into  the  sea  whence  it  arose.  And  her 
going  somehow  strengthened  him,  added  to  his  own 
foundations,  as  though  her  wave  had  merged  in  his. 

With  her  departure,  he  felt  vaguely  the  desire  to  settle 
down,  to  marry.  Unconsciously  he  caught  himself  think- 
ing of  women  in  a  new  light,  appraising  them  as  possible 
wives.  It  was  a  dangerous  attitude  rather;  for  a  man 


56  The  Wave 

then  seeks  to  persuade  himself  that  such  and  such  a 
woman  may  do,  instead  of  awaiting  the  inevitable  draw 
of  love  which  alone  can  justify  a  life-long  union. 

In  Tom's  case,  however,  as  with  the  smaller  fires  of 
his  younger  days,  he  never  came  to  a  decision,  much  less 
to  a  positive  confession.  His  immense  idealism  concern- 
ing women  preserved  him  from  being  caught  by  mere 
outward  beauty.  While  aware  that  Lettice  was  an  im- 
possible dream  of  boyhood,  he  yet  clung  to  an  ideal  she 
somehow  foreshadowed  and  typified.  He  never  relin- 
quished this  standard  of  his  dream ;  a  mysterious  woman 
waited  for  him  somewhere,  a  woman  with  all  the  fairy 
qualities  he  had  built  about  her  personality ;  a  woman  he 
could  not  possibly  mistake  when  at  last  he  met  her.  Only 
he  did  not  meet  her.  He  waited. 

And  so  it  was,  as  time  passed  onwards,  that  he  found 
himself  standing  upon  the  little  level  platform  of  his 
life  at  a  stage  nearer  to  thirty-five  than  thirty,  conscious 
that  a  pause  surrounded  him.  There  was  a  lull.  The 
rush  of  the  years  slowed  down.  He  looked  about  him. 
He  looked — back. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  particular  moment  when  this  happened,  suitable, 
too,  in  a  chance,  odd  way,  was  upon  a  mountain 
ridge  in  winter,  a  level  platform  of  icy  snow  to  which  he 
had  climbed  with  some  hotel  acquaintances  on  a  ski-ing 
expedition.  It  was  on  the  Polish  side  of  the  Hohe  Tatra. 

Why,  at  this  special  moment,  pausing  for  breath  and 
admiring  the  immense  wintry  scene  about  him,  he  should 
have  realized  that  he  reached  a  similar  position  in  his 
life,  is  hard  to  say.  There  is  always  a  particular  moment 
when  big  changes  claim  attention.  They  have  been  com- 
ing slowly;  but  at  a  given  moment  they  announce  them- 
selves. Tom  associated  that  icy  ridge  above  Zakopane 
with  a  pause  in  the  rushing  of  the  years:  "I'm  getting 
on  towards  middle  age;  the  first  swift  climb — impetuous 
youth — lies  now  behind  me."  The  physical  parallel 
doubtless  suggested  it;  he  had  felt  his  legs  and  wind  a 
trifle  less  willing,  perhaps ;  there  was  still  a  steep,  labori- 
ous slope  of  snow  beyond ;  he  discovered  that  he  was  no 
longer  twenty-five. 

He  drew  breath  and  watched  the  rest  of  the  party 
as  they  slowly  came  nearer  in  the  track  he  had  made 
through  the  deep  snow  below.  Each  man  made  this 
track  in  his  turn,  it  was  hard  work,  his  share  was  done. 
"Nagorsky  will  tackle  the  next  bit,"  he  thought  with 
relief,  watching  a  young  Pole  of  twenty-three  in  the 
ascending  line,  and  glancing  at  the  summit  beyond  where 
the  run  home  was  to  begin.  And  then  the  wonder  of  the 
white  silent  scene  invaded  him,  the  exhilarating  thrill  of 
the  vast  wintry  heights  swept  over  him,  he  forgot  the 
toil,  he  regained  his  wind  and  felt  his  muscles  taut  and 
vigorous  once  more.  It  was  pleasant,  standing  upon 

57 


58  The  Wave 

this  level  ridge,  to  inspect  the  long  ascent  below,  and  to 
know  the  heavy  yet  enjoyable  exertion  was  nearly  over. 

But  he  had  felt — older.  That  ridge  remained  in  his 
memory  as  the  occasion  of  its  first  realization;  a  door 
opened  behind  him;  he  looked  back.  He  envied  the 
other's  twenty-three  years.  It  is  curious  that,  about 
thirty,  a  man  feels  he  is  getting  old,  whereas  at  forty  he 
feels  himself  young  again.  At  thirty  he  judges  by  the 
standard  of  eighteen,  at  the  later  age  by  that  of  sixty. 
But  this  particular  occasion  remained  vivid  for  another 
reason — it  was  accompanied  by  a  strange  sensation  he 
had  almost  forgotten ;  and  so  long  an  interval  had  elapsed 
since  its  last  manifestation  that  for  a  moment  a  kind  of 
confusion  dropped  upon  him,  as  from  the  cloudless  sky. 
Something  was  gathering  behind  him,  something  was 
about  to  fall.  He  recognized  the  familiar  feeling  that 
he  knew  of  old,  the  subterranean  thrill,  the  rich,  sweet 
pain,  the  power,  the  reality.  It  was  the  wavy  feeling. 

Balanced  on  his  ski,  the  seal-skin  strips  gripping  the 
icy  ridge  securely,  he  turned  instinctively  to  seek  the  rea- 
son, if  any  were  visible,  of  the  abrupt  revival.  His  mind, 
helped  by  the  stimulating  air  and  sunshine,  worked 
swiftly.  The  odd  confusion  clouded  his  faculties  still,  as 
in  a  dream  state,  but  he  pierced  it  in  several  directions 
simultaneously. 

Was  it  that,  envying  another's  youth,  he  had  reentered 
imaginatively  his  own  youthful  feelings?  He  looked 
down  at  the  rest  of  the  party  climbing  towards  him. 
And  doing  so,  he  picked  out  the  slim  figure  of  Nagorsky's 
sister,  a  girl  whose  winter  costume  became  her  marvel- 
ously,  and  whom  the  happy  intimacy  of  the  hotel  life  had 
made  so  desirable  that  an  expedition  without  her  seemed 
a  lost,  blank  day.  Unless  she  was  of  the  party  there  was 
no  sunshine.  He  watched  her  now,  looking  adorable  in 
her  big  gauntlet  gloves,  her  short  skirt,  her  tasseled  cap 
of  black  and  gold,  a  fairy  figure  on  the  big  snowfield,  fill- 
ing the  world  with  sunshine — and  knew  abruptly  that 


The  Wave 


59 


she  meant  to  him  just  exactly — nothing.  The  intensity  of 
the  wavy  feeling  reduced  her  to  an  unreality. 

It  was  not  she  who  brought  the  great  emotion. 

The  confusion  in  him  deepened.  Another  scale  of 
measurement  appeared.  The  crowded  intervening  years 
now  seemed  but  a  pause,  a  brief  delay ;  he  had  run  down 
a  side  track  and  returned.  He  had  not  grown  older. 
Seen  by  the  grand  scale  to  which  the  Wave  and  "sea" 
belonged,  he  had  scarcely  moved  from  the  old  starting- 
point,  where,  far  away  in  some  unassailable  recess  of  life, 
still  waiting  for  him,  stood — Lettice  Aylmer. 

Turning  his  eyes,  then,  from  the  approaching  climbers, 
he  glanced  at  the  steep  slope  above  him,  and  saw — as 
once  before  on  the  English  coast — something  that  took 
his  breath  away  and  made  his  muscles  weak.  He  stared 
at  it.  It  looked  down  at  him. 

Five  hundred  feet  above,  outlined  against  the  sky  of 
crystal  clearness,  ran  a  colossal  wave  of  solid  snow.  At 
the  highest  point  it  was,  of  course,  a  cornice,  but  towards 
the  east,  whence  came  the  prevailing  weather,  the  wind 
had  so  manipulated  the  mass  that  it  formed  a  curling  bil- 
low, twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  depth,  leaping  over  in  the 
very  act  of  breaking,  yet  arrested  just  before  it  fell.  It 
hung  waiting  in  mid-air,  perfectly  molded,  a  wave — 
but  a  wave  of  snow. 

It  swung  along  the  ridge  for  half  a  mile  and  more :  it 
seemed  to  fill  the  sky;  it  rose  out  of  the  sea  of  eternal 
snow  below  it,  poised  between  the  earth  and  heavens. 
In  the  hollow  beneath  its  curve  lay  purple  shadows  the 
eye  could  not  pierce.  And  the  similarity  to  the  earlier 
episode  struck  him  vividly;  in  each  case  Nature  assisted 
with  a  visible  wave  as  by  way  of  counterpart ;  each  time, 
too,  there  was  a  girl — as  though  some  significance  of  sex 
hid  in  the  "wavy  feeling."  He  was  profoundly  puzzled. 

The  same  second,  in  this  wintry  world  where  move- 
ment, sound,  and  perfume  have  no  place,  there  stole  to 
his  nostrils  across  the  desolate  ranges  another  detail.  It 


60  The  Wave 

was  more  intimate  in  its  appeal  even  than  the  wavy  feel- 
ing, yet  was  part  of  it.  He  recognized  the  Whiff.  And 
the  joint  attack,  both  by  its  suddenness  and  by  its  inten- 
sity, overwhelmed  him.  Only  the  Sound  was  lacking,  but 
that,  too,  he  felt,  was  on  the  way.  Already  a  sharp 
instinctive  movement  was  running  down  his  legs.  He 
began  to  shuffle  on  his  ski.  .  .  . 

.A  chorus  of  voices,  as  from  far  away,  broke  round 
him,  disturbing  the  intense  stillness;  and  he  knew  that 
the  others  had  reached  the  ridge.  With  a  violent  effort 
he  mastered  the  ridiculous  movement  of  his  disobedient 
legs,  but  what  really  saved  him  from  embarrassing  notice 
was  the  breathless  state  of  his  companions,  and  the  fact 
that  his  action  looked  after  all  quite  natural — he  seemed 
merely  rubbing  his  ski  along  the  snow  to  clean  their 
under-surface. 

Exclamations  in  French,  English,  Polish  rose  on  all 
sides,  as  the  view  into  the  deep  opposing  valley  caught  the 
eye,  and  a  shower  of  questions  all  delivered  at  once,  drew 
attention  from  himself.  What  scenery,  what  a  sky,  what 
masses  of  untrodden  snow !  Should  they  lunch  on  the 
ridge  or  continue  to  the  summit  ?  What  were  the  names 
of  all  these  peaks,  and  was  the  Danube  visible?  How 
lucky  there  was  no  wind,  and  how  they  pitied  the  people 
who  stayed  behind  in  the  hotels !  Sweaters  and  woolen 
waistcoats  emerged  from  half-a-dozen  knapsacks,  cook- 
ing apparatus  was  produced,  one  chose  a  spot  to  make 
a  fire,  while  another  broke  the  dead  branches  from  a 
stunted  pine,  and  in  five  minutes  had  made  a  blaze  be- 
hind a  little  wall  of  piled-up  snow.  The  Polish  girl  came 
up  and  asked  Tom  for  his  Zeiss  glasses,  examined  the 
soaring  slope  beyond,  then  obediently  put  on  the  extra 
sweater  he  held  out  for  her.  He  hardly  saw  her  face, 
and  certainly  did  not  notice  the  expression  in  her  eyes. 
All  took  off  their  ski  and  plunged  them  upright  in  the 
nearest  drift.  The  sun  blazed  everywhere,  the  snow  crys- 
tals sparkled.  They  settled  down  for  lunch,  a  small 


The  Wave  61 

dark  clot  of  busy  life  upon  the  vast  expanse  of  desolate 
snow  .  .  .  and  anything  unusual  about  Tom  Kelverdon, 
muffled  to  the  throat  against  the  freezing  cold,  his  eyes, 
moreover,  concealed  by  green  snow  spectacles,  was  cer- 
tainly not  noticed. 

Another  party,  besides,  was  discovered  climbing  up- 
wards along  their  own  laborious  track :  in  the  absorbing 
business  of  satisfying  big  appetites,  tending  the  fire,  and 
speculating  who  these  other  skiers  might  be,  Tom's 
silence  caused  no  comment.  His  self-control,  for  the 
rest,  was  soon  recovered.  But  his  interest  in  the  expedi- 
tion had  oddly  waned;  he  was  still  searching  furiously 
in  his  thoughts  for  an  explanation  of  the  unexpected 
"attack,"  waiting  for  the  Sound,  but  chiefly  wondering 
why  his  boyhood's  nightmare  had  never  revealed  that 
the  Wave  was  of  snow  instead  of  water — and,  at  the 
same  time,  oddly  convinced  that  he  had  moved  but  one 
stage  nearer  to  its  final  elucidation.  That  it  was  solid 
he  had  already  discovered,  but  that  it  was  actually  of 
snow  left  a  curious  doubt  in  him. 

Of  all  this  he  was  thinking  as  he  devoured  his  eggs 
and  sandwiches,  something  still  trembling  in  him,  nerves 
keenly  sensitive,  but  not  quite  persuaded  that  this  wave  of 
snow  was  the  sufficient  cause  of  what  he  had  just  ex- 
perienced— when  at  length  the  other  climbers,  moving 
swiftly,  came  close  enough  to  be  inspected.  The  cus- 
tomary remarks  and  criticisms  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  with  warnings  to  lower  voices  since  sound  carried 
too  easily  in  the  rarefied  air.  One  of  the  party  was  soon 
recognized  as  the  hotel  doctor,  and  the  other,  first  set 
down  as  a  Norwegian  owing  to  his  light  hair,  shining 
hatless  in  the  sunlight,  proved  on  closer  approach  to  be 
an  Englishman — both  men  evidently  experienced  and  ac- 
complished "runners/' 

In  any  other  place  the  two  parties  would  hardly  have 
spoken,  settling  down  into  opposing  camps  of  hostile 
silence;  but  in  the  lonely  winter  mountains  human  rela- 


62  The  Wave 

tionship  becomes  more  natural;  the  time  of  day  was 
quickly  passed,  and  details  of  the  route  exchanged;  the 
doctor  and  his  friend  mingled  easily  with  the  first  ar- 
rivals ;  all  agreed  spontaneously  to  take  the  run  home  to- 
gether; and  finally,  when  names  were  produced  with 
laughing  introductions,  the  Englishman — by  one  of  those 
coincidences  people  pretend  to  think  strange,  but  that 
actually  ought  to  occur  more  often  than  they  do — turned 
out  to  be  known  to  Tom,  and  after  considerable  explana- 
tions was  proved  to  be  more  than  that — a  cousin. 

Welcoming  the  diversion,  making  the  most  of  it  in  fact, 
Kelverdon  presented  Anthony  Winslowe  to  his  Polish 
companions  with  a  certain  zeal  to  which  the  new  arrival 
responded  with  equal  pleasure.  The  light-haired,  blue- 
eyed  Englishman,  young  and  skilful  on  his  ski,  formed  a 
distinct  addition  to  the  party.  He  was  tall,  with  a  slight 
stoop  about  the  shoulders  that  suggested  study;  he  was 
gay  and  very  easy-going  too.  It  was  "Tom"  and  "Tony" 
before  lunch  was  over ;  they  recalled  their  private  school, 
a  fight,  an  eternal  friendship  vowed  after  it,  and  the 
twenty  intervening  years  melted  as  though  they  had  not 
been. 

"Of  course,"  Tom  said,  proud  of  his  new-found  cou- 
sin, "and  I've  read  your  bird  books,  what's  more.  By 
Jove,  you're  quite  an  authority  on  natural  history,  aren't 
you?" 

The  other  modestly  denied  any  fame,  but  the  girls, 
especially  Nagorsky's  sister,  piqued  by  Tom's  want  of 
notice,  pressed  for  details  in  their  pretty  broken  Eng- 
lish. It  became  a  merry  and  familiar  party,  as  the  way 
is  with  easy  foreigners,  particularly  when  they  meet  in 
such  wild  and  unconventional  surroundings.  Winslowe 
had  lantern  slides  in  his  trunk :  that  night  he  promised  to 
show  them :  they  chattered  and  paid  compliments  and 
laughed,  Tony  explaining  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Egypt 
to  study  the  bird-life  along  the  Nile.  Natural  history 
was  his  passion ;  he  talked  delightfully ;  he  made  the  bird 


The  Wave  63 

and  animal  life  seem  real  and  interesting;  there  was 
imagination,  humor,  lightness  in  him.  There  was  a 
fascination,  too,  not  due  to  looks  alone.  It  was  in  his 
atmosphere,  what  is  currently,  perhaps,  called  magnetism. 

"No  animals  here  for  you,"  said  a  girl,  pointing  to 
the  world  of  white  death  about  them. 

"There's  something  better,"  he  said  quickly  in  quite 
decent  Polish.  "We're  all  in  the  animal  kingdom,  you 
know."  And  he  glanced  with  a  bow  of  admiration  at  the 
speaker,  whom  the  others  instantly  began  to  tease.  It 
was  Irena,  Nagorsky's  sister;  she  flushed  and  laughed. 
"We  thought,"  she  said,  "you  were  Norwegian,  because 
of  your  light  hair,  and  the  way  you  moved  on  your  ski. 

"A  great  compliment,"  he  rejoined,  "but  I  saw  you 
long  ago  on  the  ridge,  and  I  knew  at  once  that  you  were — 
Polish." 

The  girl  returned  his  bow.  "The  largest  compliment," 
she  answered  gaily,  "I  had  ever  in  my  life." 

Tom  had  only  arrived  two  days  before,  bringing  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  doctor,  and  that  night  he 
changed  his  hotel,  joining  his  new  friends  and  his  cousin 
at  the  Grand.  An  obvious  flirtation,  possibly  something 
more,  sprung  up  spontaneously  between  him  and  the 
Polish  girl,  but  Kelverdon  welcomed  it  and  felt  no 
jealousy.  "Not  trespassing,  old  chap,  am  I  ?"  Tony  asked 
jokingly,  having  divined  on  the  mountains  that  the  girl 
was  piqued.  "On  the  contrary,"  was  the  honest  assur- 
ance given  frankly,  "I'm  relieved.  A  delightful  girl, 
though,  isn't  she?  And  fascinatingly  pretty!" 

For  the  existence  of  Nagorsky's  sister  had  become  sud- 
denly to  him  of  no  importance  whatsoever.  It  was 
strange  enough,  but  the  vivid  recurrence  of  long-forgot- 
ten symbols  that  afternoon  upon  the  heights  had  restored 
to  him  something  he  had  curiously  forgotten,  something 
he  had  shamefully  neglected,  almost,  it  seemed,  had  been 
in  danger  of  losing  altogether.  It  came  back  upon  him 
now.  He  clung  desperately  to  it  as  to  a  real,  a  vital,  a 


64  The  Wave 

necessary  thing.  It  was  a  genuine  relief  that  the  rela- 
tionship between  him  and  the  girl  might  be  ended  thus. 
In  any  case,  he  reflected,  it  would  have  "ended  thus"  a 
little  later — like  all  the  others.  No  trace  or  sign  of  envy 
stayed  in  him.  Irena  and  Tony,  anyhow,  seemed  ad- 
mirably suited  to  one  another;  he  noticed  on  the  long 
run  home  how  naturally  they  came  together.  And  even 
his  own  indifference  would  not  bring  her  back  to  him. 
He  felt  quite  pleased  and  satisfied.  He  had  a  long  talk 
with  Tony  before  going  to  bed.  He  felt  drawn  to  him. 
There  was  a  spontaneous  innate  sympathy  between  them. 

They  had  many  other  talks  together,  and  Tom  liked 
his  interesting,  brilliant  cousin.  A  week  passed ;  dances, 
ski-ing  trips,  skating,  and  the  usual  program  of  win- 
try enjoyments  filled  the  time  too  quickly;  companionship 
became  intimacy ;  all  sat  at  the  same  table :  Tony  became 
a  general  favorite.  He  had  just  that  combination  of 
reserve  and  abandon  which — provided  something  genuine 
lies  behind — attracts  the  majority  of  people  who,  being 
dull,  have  neither.  Most  are  reserved,  through  emptiness, 
or  else  abandoned — also  through  emptiness.  Tony  Wins- 
lowe,  full  of  experience  and  ideas,  vivid  experience  and 
original  ideas,  combined  the  two  in  rarest  equipoise.  It 
was  spontaneous,  and  not  calculated  in  him.  There  was 
a  stimulating  quality  in  his  personality.  Like  those  tiny, 
exciting  Japanese  tales  that  lead  to  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice, then  end  with  unexpected  abruptness  that  is  their 
purpose,  he  led  all  who  liked  him  to  the  brink  of  a  de- 
lightful revelation — then  paused,  stopped,  vanished.  And 
all  did  like  him.  He  was  light  and  gay,  for  all  the  depth 
in  him.  Something  of  the  child  peeped  out.  He  won 
Tom  Kelverdon's  confidence  without  an  effort.  He  also 
won  the  affectionate  confidence  of  the  Polish  girl. 

"You're  not  married,  Tony,  are  you?"  Tom  asked 
him. 

"Married!"  Tony  answered  with  a  flush — he  flushed 
so  easily  when  teased — "I  love  my  wild  life  and  animals 


The  Wave  65 

far  too  much."  He  stammered  slightly.  Then  he  looked 
up  quickly  into  his  cousin's  eyes  with  frankness.  Tom, 
without  knowing  why,  almost  felt  ashamed  of  having 
asked  it.  "I — I  never  can  go  beyond  a  certain  point," 
he  said,  "with  girls.  Something  always  holds  me  back. 
Odd— isn't  it?"  He  hesitated.  Then  this  flashed  from 
him :  "Bees  never  sip  the  last,  the  sweetest  drop  of  honey 
from  the  rose,  you  know.  The  sunset  always  leaves  one 
golden  cloud  adrift — eh?"  So  there  was  poetry  in  him 
too! 

And  Tom,  simpler,  as  well  as  more  rigidly  molded, 
felt  a  curious  touch  of  passionate  sympathy  as  he  heard 
it.  His  heart  went  out  to  the  other  suddenly  with  a 
burst  of  confidence.  Some  barrier  melted  in  him  and 
disappeared.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew  the 
inclination,  even  the  desire,  to  speak  of  things  hidden 
deep  within  his  heart.  His  cousin  would  understand. 

And  Tony's  sudden,  wistful  silence  invited  the  confes- 
sion. They  had  already  been  talking  of  their  forgotten 
youthful  days  together.  The  ground  was  well  prepared. 
They  had  even  talked  of  his  sister,  Mary,  and  her  mar- 
riage. Tony  remembered  her  distinctly.  He  spoke  of  it, 
leaning  forward  and  putting  a  hand  on  his  cousin's  knee. 
Tom  noticed  vaguely  the  size  of  the  palm,  the  wrist, 
the  fingers — they  seemed  disproportionate.  They  were 
ugly  hands.  But  it  was  subconscious  notice.  His  mind 
was  on  another  thing. 

"I  say,"  Tom  began  with  a  sudden  plunge,  "you  know 
a  lot  about  birds  and  natural  history — biology  too,  I  sup- 
pose. Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  spiral  movement?" 

"Spinal,  did  you  say?"  queried  the  other,  turning  the 
stem  of  his  glass  and  looking  up. 

"No — spiral,"  Tom  repeated,  laughing  dryly  in  spite 
of  himself.  "I  mean  the  idea — that  evolution,  whether 
individually  in  men  and  animals,  or  with  nations — his- 
torically, that  is — is  not  in  a  straight  line  ahead,  but 
moves  upwards — in  a  spiral?" 


66  The  Wave 

"It's  in  the  air,"  replied  Tony  vaguely,  yet  somehow  as 
if  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  it.  "The  movement 
of  the  race,  you  mean?" 

"And  of  the  individual  too.  We're  here,  I  mean,  for 
the  purpose  of  development — whatever  one's  particular 
belief  may  be — and  that  this  development,  instead  of 
going  forwards  in  a  straight  line,  has  a  kind  of — spiral 
movement — upwards  ?" 

Tony  looked  wonderfully  wise.  "I've  heard  of  it,"  he 
said.  "The  spiral  movement,  as  you  say,  is  full  of  sug- 
gestion. It's  common  among  plants.  But  I  don't  think 
science,  biology,  at  any  rate,  takes  much  account  of  it." 

Tom  interrupted  eagerly,  and  with  a  certain  grave 
enthusiasm  that  evidently  intrigued  his  companion.  "I 
mean — a  movement  that  is  always  upwards,  always  get- 
ting higher,  and  always  looking  down  upon  what  has  gone 
before.  That,  if  it's  true,  a  soul  can  look  back — look 
down  upon  what  it  has  been  through  before,  but  from 
a  higher  point — do  you  see?" 

Tony  emptied  his  glass  and  then  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  see 
right  enough,"  he  said  at  length,  quick  and  facile  to  ap- 
propriate any  and  every  idea  he  came  across,  yet  obvi- 
ously astonished  by  his  companion's  sudden  seriousness. 
"Only  the  other  day  I  read  that  humanity,  for  instance, 
is  just  now  above  the  superstitious  period — of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  say — going  over  it  again — but  that  the  recru- 
descence everywhere  of  psychic  interests — fortune-tell- 
ing, palmistry,  magic,  and  the  rest — has  become  quasi- 
scientific.  It's  going  through  the  same  period,  but  seeks 
to  explain  and  understand.  It's  above  it — one  stage  or 
so.  Is  that  what  you  mean,  perhaps?" 

Tom  drew  in  his  horns,  though  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  say  why.  Tony  appropriated  his  own  idea 
too  easily  somehow — had  almost  read  his  thoughts. 
Vaguely  he  resented  it.  Tony  had  stolen  from  him — 
offended  against  some  schoolboy  meum  and  tuum  stand- 
ard. 


The  Wave  67 

"That's  it — the  idea,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  wondering 
why  confidence  had  frozen  in  him.  "Interesting,  rather, 
isn't  it?" 

And  then  abruptly  he  found  that  he  was  staring  at  his 
cousin's  hands,  spread  on  the  table,  palm  downwards. 
He  had  been  staring  at  them  for  some  time,  but  un- 
consciously. Now  he  saw  them.  And  there  was  some- 
thing about  them  that  he  did  not  like.  Absurd  as  it 
seemed,  his  change  of  mood  had  to  do  with  those  big, 
ungainly  hands,  tanned  a  deep  brown-black  by  the  sun. 
A  faint  shiver  ran  through  him.  He  looked  away. 

"Extraordinary,"  Tony  went  chattering  on.  "It  ex- 
plains these  new,  wild  dances  perhaps.  Anything  more 
spiral  and  twisty  than  these  modern  gyrations  I  never 
saw !"  He  turned  it  off  in  his  light,  amusing  way,  yet  as 
though  quite  familiar  with  the  deeper  aspects  of  the 
question — if  he  cared.  "And  what  the  body  does,"  he 
added,  "the  mind  has  already  done  a  little  time  before!" 

He  laughed,  but  whether  he  was  in  earnest,  or  merely 
playing  with  the  idea,  was  uncertain.  What  had  stopped 
Tom  was,  perhaps,  that  they  were  not  in  the  same  key 
together ;  Tom  had  used  a  word  he  rarely  cared  to  use — 
soul — it  had  cost  him  a  certain  effort — but  his  cousin 
had  not  responded.  That,  and  the  hands,  explained  his 
change  of  mood.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  his 
honest,  simple  mind  that  Tony  was  of  other  stuff,  per- 
haps, than  he  had  thought.  That  remark  about  the  bees 
and  sunset  jarred  a  little.  The  lightness  suggested  in- 
sincerity almost. 

He  shook  the  notion  off,  for  it  was  disagreeable,  un- 
generous as  well.  This  was  holiday-time,  and  serious 
discussion  was  out  of  place.  The  airy  lightness  in  his 
cousin  was  just  suited  to  the  conditions  of  a  winter-sport 
hotel ;  it  was  what  made  him  so  attractive  to  all  and  sun- 
dry ;  so  easy  to  get  on  with.  Yet  Tom  would  have  liked 
to  confide  in  him,  to  have  told  him  more,  asked  further 
questions  and  heard  the  answers ;  stranger  still,  he  would 


68  The  Wave 

have  liked  to  lead  from  the  spiral  to  the  wave,  to  his  own 
wavy  feeling,  and,  further  even — almost  to  speak  of 
Lettice  and  his  boyhood  nightmare.  He  had  never  met 
a  man  in  regard  to  whom  he  felt  so  forthcoming  in  this 
way.  Tony  surely  had  seriousness  and  depth  in  him; 
this  irresponsibility  was  on  the  surface  only.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  queer  confusion  in  his  mind — several  incongruous 
things  trying  to  combine.  .  .  . 

"I  knew  a  princess  once — the  widow  of  a  Russian," 
Tony  was  saying.  He  had  been  talking  on,  gayly,  lightly, 
for  some  time,  but  Tom,  busy  with  these  reflections,  had 
not  listened  properly.  He  now  looked  up  sharply,  some- 
thing suddenly  alert  in  him.  "They're  all  princes  in 
Russia,"  Tony  laughed.  "It  means  less  than  Count  in 
France  or  von  in  Germany."  He  stopped  and  drained 
his  glass.  "But  you  know,"  he  went  on,  his  thoughts 
half  elsewhere,  it  seemed,  "it's  bad  for  a  country  when 
titles  are  too  common,  it  lowers  the  aristocratic  ideal.  In 
the  Caucasus — Batoum  for  instance — every  Georgian  is 
a  noble,  your  hotel  porter  a  prince."  He  broke  off  ab- 
ruptly, as  though  reminded  of  something.  "Of  course!" 
he  exclaimed,  "I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  the  Russian 
woman  I  knew  who  had  something  of  that  idea  of 
yours."  He  stopped,  as  his  eye  caught  his  cousin's  empty 
glass.  "Let's  have  another,"  he  said,  beckoning  to  the 
waitress,  "it's  very  light  stuff,  this  beer.  These  long  ski- 
trips  give  one  an  endless  thirst,  don't  they?" 

Tom  didn't  know  whether  he  said  yes  or  no.  "What 
idea?"  he  asked  quickly.  "What  do  you  mean  exactly?" 
A  curious  feeling  of  familiarity  stirred  in  him.  This 
conversation  had  happened  before. 

"Eh?"  Tony  glanced  up  as  though  he  had  again  for- 
gotten what  he  was  going  to  say.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  went  on, 
"the  Russian  woman,  the  Princess  I  met  in  Egypt.  She 
talked  a  bit  like  that  once  ...  I  remember  now." 

"Like  what?"  Tom  felt  a  sudden,  breathless  curiosity 
in  him :  he  was  afraid  the  other  would  change  his  mind, 


The  Wave  69 

or  pass  to  something  else,  or  forget  what  he  was  going 
to  say.  It  would  prove  another  Japanese  tale — disappear 
before  it  satisfied. 

But  Tony  went  on  at  last,  noticing,  perhaps,  his  cou- 
sin's interest. 

"I  was  up  at  Edfu  after  birds,"  he  said,  "and  she  had 
a  dehabieh  on  the  river.  Some  friends  took  me  there 
to  tea,  or  something.  It  was  nothing  particular.  Only 
it  occurred  to  me  just  now  when  you  talked  of  spirals 
and  things." 

"You  talked  about  the  spiral?"  Tom  asked.  "Talked 
with  her  about  it,  I  mean  ?"  He  was  slow,  almost  stupid 
compared  to  the  other  who  seemed  to  flash  lightly  and 
quickly  over  a  dozen  ideas  at  once.  But  there  was  this 
real,  natural  sympathy  between  them  both  again.  It 
seemed  he  knew  exactly  what  his  cousin  was  going  to  say. 

Tony,  blowing  the  foam  off  his  beer  glass,  proceeded 
to  quench  his  wholesome  thirst.  "Not  exactly,"  he  said 
at  length,  "but  we  talked,  I  remember,  along  that  line. 
I  was  explaining  about  the  flight  of  birds — that  all  wild 
animal  life  moves  in  a  spontaneous  sort  of  natural 
rhythm — with  an  unconscious  grace,  I  mean,  we've  lost 
because  we  think  too  much.  Birds,  in  particular,  rise 
and  fall  with  a  swoop,  the  simplest,  freest  movement  in 
the  world — like  a  wave " 

"Yes  ?"  interrupted  Tom,  leaning  over  the  table  a  little 
and  nearly  upsetting  his  untouched  glass.  "I  like  that 
idea.  It's  true." 

"And — oh,  that  all  the  forces  known  to  science  move 
in  a  similar  way — by  wave- form,  don't  you  see?  Some- 
thing like  that  it  was."  He  took  another  draught  of  the 
nectar  his  day's  exertions  had  certainly  earned. 

"She  said  that?"  asked  Tom,  watching  his  cousin's 
face  buried  in  the  enormous  mug. 

Tony  set  it  down  with  a  sigh  of  intense  satisfaction. 
"I  said  it,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  frank  egoism.  "You're 
too  tired  after  all  your  falls  this  afternoon  to  listen  prop- 


70  The  Wave 

erly.  I  was  the  teacher  on  that  occasion,  she  the  adoring 
listener!  But  if  you  want  to  know  what  she  said  too, 
I'll  tell  you." 

Tom  waited ;  he  raised  his  glass,  pretending  to  drink ; 
if  he  showed  too  much  interest,  the  other  might  swerve 
off  again  to  something  else.  He  knew  what  was  coming, 
yet  could  not  have  actually  foretold  it.  He  recognized 
it  only  the  instant  aferwards. 

"She  talked  about  water,"  Tony  went  on,  as  though 
he  had  difficulty  in  recalling  what  she  really  had  said, 
"and  I  think  she  had  water  on  the  brain,"  he  added 
lightly.  "The  Nile  had  bewitched  her  probably;  it  af- 
fects most  of  'em  out  there,  the  women,  that  is.  She 
said  life  moved  in  a  stream — that  she  moved  down  a 
stream,  or  something,  and  that  only  things  going  down 
the  stream  with  her  were  real.  Anything  on  the  banks 
— stationary,  that  is — was  not  real.  Oh,  she  said  a  lot. 
I've  really  forgotten  now — it  was  a  year  or  two  ago — 
but  I  remember  her  mentioning  shells  and  the  spiral  twist 
of  shells.  In  fact,"  he  added,  as  if  there  was  no  more 
to  tell,  "I  suppose  that's  what  made  me  think  of  her  just 
now-^your  mentioning  the  spiral  movement." 

The  door  of  the  room,  half  cafe  and  half  bar,  where 
the  peasants  sat  at  wooden  tables  about  them,  opened, 
and  the  pretty  head  of  Irena  Nagorsky  appeared.  A 
burst  of  music  came  in  with  her.  "We  dance/'  she  said, 
a  note  of  reproach  as  well  as  invitation  in  her  voice — 
then  vanished.  Tony,  leaving  his  beer  unfinished,  laughed 
at  his  cousin  and  went  after  her.  "My  last  night,"  he 
said  cheerily.  "Must  be  gay  and  jolly.  I'm  off  to  Trieste 
to-morrow  for  Alexandria.  See  you  later,  Tom — unless 
you're  coming  to  dance  too." 

But,  though  they  saw  each  other  many  a  time  again 
that  evening,  there  was  no  further  conversation.  Next 
day  the  party  broke  up,  Tom  returning  to  the  Water 
Works  his  firm  was  constructing  outside  Warsaw,  and 
Tony  taking  the  train  for  Budapesth  en  route  for  Trieste 


The  Wave  71 

and  Egypt.  He  urged  Tom  to  follow  him  as  soon  as 
his  work  was  finished,  gave  the  Turf  Club,  Cairo,  as  his 
permanent  address  where  letters  would  always  reach  him 
sooner  or  later,  waved  his  hat  to  the  assembled  group 
upon  the  platform,  and  was  gone.  The  last  detail  of  him 
visible  was  the  hand  that  held  the  waving  hat.  It  looked 
bigger,  darker,  thought  Tom,  than  ever.  It  was  almost 
disfiguring.  It  stirred  a  hint  of  dislike  in  him.  He 
turned  his  eyes  away. 

But  Tom  Kelverdon  remembered  that  last  night  in  the 
hotel  for  another  reason  too.  In  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning  he  woke  up,  hearing  a  sound  close  beside  him 
in  the  room.  He  listened  a  moment,  then  turned  on  the 
light  above  the  bed.  The  sound,  of  an  unusual  and  pe- 
culiar character,  continued  faintly.  But  it  was  not  ac- 
tually in  the  room  as  he  first  supposed.  It  was  outside. 

More  than  ten  years  had  passed  since  he  had  heard 
that  sound.  He  had  expected  it  that  day  on  the  moun- 
tains when  the  wavy  feeling  and  the  Whiff  had  come 
to  him.  Sooner  or  later  he  felt  positive  he  would  hear  it. 
He  heard  it  now.  It  had  merely  been  delayed,  post- 
poned. Something  gathering  slowly  and  steadily  behind 
his  life  was  drawing  nearer — had  come  already  very 
close.  He  heard  the  dry,  rattling  Sound  that  was  asso- 
ciated with  the  Wave  and  with  the  Whiff.  In  it,  too,  was 
a  vague  familiarity. 

And  then  he  realized  that  the  wind  was  rising.  A 
frozen  pine-branch,  stiff  with  little  icicles,  was  rattling 
and  scraping  faintly  outside  the  wooden  framework  of 
the  double  windows.  It  was  the  icy  branch  that  made 
the  dry,  rattling  sound.  He  listened  intently;  the  sound 
was  repeated  at  certain  intervals,  then  ceased,  as  the 
wind  died  down.  And  he  turned  over  and  fell  asleep 
again,  aware  that  what  he  had  heard  was  an  imitation 
only,  but  an  imitation  strangely  accurate — of  a  reality. 
Similarly,  the  wave  of  snow  was  but  an  imitation  of  a 
reality  to  come.  This  reality  lay  waiting  still  beyond 


72  The  Wave 

him.  One  day — one  day  soon — he  would  know  it  face 
to  face.  The  Wave,  he  felt,  was  rising  behind  his  life, 
and  his  life  was  rising  with  it  towards  a  climax.  On 
the  little  level  platform  where  the  years  had  landed  him 
for  a  temporary  pause,  he  began  to  shuffle  with  his  feet 
in  dream.  And  something  deeper  than  his  mind— looked 
back.  .  .  . 

The  instinct,  or  by  whatever  name  he  called  that  posi- 
tive, interior  affirmation,  proved  curiously  right.  Life 
rose  with  the  sweep  and  power  of  a  wave,  bearing  him 
with  it  towards  various  climaxes.  His  powers,  such  as 
they  were,  seemed  all  in  the  ascendant.  He  passed  from 
that  level  platform  as  with  an  upward  rush,  all  his  enter- 
prises, all  his  energies,  all  that  he  wanted  and  tried  to  do, 
surging  forward  towards  the  crest  of  successful  accom- 
plishment. 

And  a  dozen  times  at  least  he  caught  himself  asking 
mentally  for  his  cousin  Tony;  wishing  he  had  confided 
in  him  more,  revealed  more  of  this  curious  business  to 
him,  exchanged  sympathies  with  him  about  it  all.  A  kind 
of  yearning  rose  in  him  for  his  vanished  friend.  Al- 
most he  had  missed  an  opportunity.  Tony  would  have 
understood  and  helped  to  clear  things  up;  to  no  other 
man  of  his  acquaintance  could  he  have  felt  similarly. 
But  Tony  was  now  out  of  reach  in  Egypt,  chasing  his 
birds  among  the  temples  of  the  haunted  Nile,  already, 
doubtless,  the  center  of  a  circle  of  new  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances who  found  him  as  attractive  and  fascinating 
as  the  little  Zakopane  group  had  found  him.  Tony  must 
keep. 

Tom  Kelverdon,  meanwhile,  his  brief  holiday  over,  re- 
turned to  his  work  at  Warsaw,  and  brought  it  to  a  suc- 
cessful conclusion  with  a  rapidity  no  one  had  foreseen, 
and  he  himself  had  least  of  all  expected.  The  power 
of  the  rising  wave  was  in  all  he  did.  He  could  not  fail. 
Out  of  the  success  grew  other  contracts,  highly  profitable 
to  his  firm.  Some  energy  that  overcame  all  obstacles, 


The  Wave  73 

some  clarity  of  judgment  that  selected  unerringly  the 
best  ways  and  means,  some  skill  and  wisdom  in  him  that 
made  all  his  powers  work  in  unison  till  they  became  irre- 
sistible, declared  themselves,  yet  naturally  and  without 
adventitious  aid.  He  seemed  to  have  found  himself 
anew.  He  felt  pleased  and  satisfied  with  himself :  always 
self-confident,  as  a  man  of  ability  ought  to  be,  he  now 
felt  proud ;,  and,  though  conceit  had  never  been  his  fail- 
ing, this  new-born  assurance  moved  distinctly  towards 
pride.  In  a  moment  of  impulsive  pleasure  he  wrote  to 
Tony,  at  the  Turf  Club,  Cairo,  and  told  him  of  his  suc- 
cess. .  .  .  The  senior  partner,  his  father's  old  friend, 
wrote  and  asked  his  advice  upon  certain  new  proposals 
the  firm  had  in  view;  it  was  a  question  of  big  docks  to 
be  constructed  at  Salonica,  and  something  to  do  with  a 
barrage  on  the  Nile  as  well — there  were  several  juicy 
contracts  to  choose  between,  it  seemed, — and  Sir  Wil- 
liam proposed  a  meeting  in  Switzerland,  on  his  way  out 
to  the  Near  East;  he  would  break  the  journey  before 
crossing  the  Simplon  for  Milan  and  Trieste.  The  final 
telegram  said  Montreux,  and  Kelverdon  hurried  to  Vi- 
enna, and  caught  the  night  express  to  Lausanne  by  way 
of  Bale. 

And  at  Montreux  further  evidence  that  the  wave  of 
life  was  rising  then  declared  itself,  when  Sir  William, 
having  discussed  the  various  propositions  with  him,  lis- 
tening with  attention,  even  with  deference,  to  Kelver- 
don's  opinion,  told  him  quietly  that  his  brother's  retire- 
ment left  a  vacancy  in  the  firm  which — he  and  his  co- 
directors  hoped  confidently — Kelverdon  might  fill  with 
benefit  to  all  concerned.  A  senior  partnership  was  of- 
fered to  him  before  he  was  thirty-five !  Sir  William  left 
the  same  night  for  his  steamer,  and  Tom  was  to  wait 
at  Montreux,  perhaps  a  month,  perhaps  six  weeks,  until 
a  personal  inspection  of  the  several  sites  enable  the  final 
decision  to  be  made;  he  was  then  to  follow  and  take 
charge  of  the  work  itself. 


74  The  Wave 

Tom  was  immensely  pleased.  He  wrote  to  his  married 
sister  in  her  Surrey  vicarage,  told  her  the  news  with  a 
modesty  he  did  not  really  feel,  and  sent  her  a  handsome 
cheque  by  way  of  atonement  for  his  bursting  pride. 

For  simple  natures,  devoid  of  a  saving  introspection  and 
self-criticism,  upon  becoming  unexpectedly  successful, 
easily  develop  an  honest,  yet  none  the  less  corroding 
pride.  Tom  felt  himself  rather  a  desirable  person 
suddenly ;  by  no  means  negligible  at  any  rate ;  pleased  and 
satisfied  with  himself,  if  not  yet  over-weeningly  so.  His 
native  confidence  took  this  exaggerated  turn  and  twist. 
His  star  was  in  the  ascendant,  a  man  to  be  counted 
with.  .  .  . 

The  hidden  weakness  rose — as  all  else  in  him  was  ris- 
ing— with  the  Wave.  But  he  did  not  call  it  pride,  be- 
cause he  did  not  recognize  it.  It  was  akin,  perhaps,  to 
that  fatuous  complacency  of  the  bigoted  religionist  who, 
thinking  he  has  discovered  absolute  truth,  looks  down 
from  his  narrow  cell  upon  the  rest  of  the  world  with  a 
contemptuous  pity  that,  in  itself,  is  but  the  ignorance 
of  crass  self-delusion.  Tom  felt  very  sure  of  himself. 
For  a  rising  wave  drags  up  with  it  the  mud  and  rubbish 
that  have  hitherto  lain  hidden  out  of  sight  in  the  ground 
below  it.  Only  with  the  fall  do  these  undesirable  ele- 
ments return  to  their  proper  place  again — where  they  be- 
long and  are  of  value.  Sense  of  proportion  is  recovered 
only  with  perspective,  and  Tom  Kelverdon,  rising  too 
rapidly  began  to  see  himself  in  disproportionate  relation 
to  the  rest  of  life.  In  his  solid,  perhaps  stolid,  way  he 
considered  himself  a  Personality — indispensable  to  no 
small  portion  of  the  world  about  him. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  towards  the  end  of  March,  and  spring  was  flow- 
ing down  almost  visibly  from  the  heights  behind  the 
town.  April  stood  on  tiptoe  in  the  woods,  finger  on  lip, 
ready  to  dance  out  between  the  sunshine  and  the  rain^ 

Above  four  thousand  feet  the  snows  of  winter  still 
clung  thickly,  but  the  lower  slopes  were  clear,  men  and 
women  already  working  busily  among  the  dull  brown 
vineyards.  The  early  mist  cleared  off  by  ten  o'clock,  let- 
ting through  floods  of  sunshine  that  drenched  the  world, 
sparkled  above  the  streets  crowded  with  foreigners  from 
many  lands,  and  lay  basking  with  an  appearance  of  July 
upon  the  still,  blue  lake.  The  clear  brilliance  of  the  light 
had  a  quality  of  crystal.  Sea-gulls  fluttered  along  the 
shores,  tame  as  ducks  and  eager  to  be  fed.  They  lent 
to  this  inland  lake  an  atmosphere  of  the  sea,  and  Kelver- 
don  found  himself  thinking  of  some  southern  port,  Mar- 
seilles, Trieste,  Toulon. 

In  the  morning  he  watched  the  graceful  fishing-boats 
set  forth,  and  at  night,  when  only  the  glitter  of  the  lamps 
painted  the  gleaming  water  for  a  little  distance,  he  saw 
the  swans,  their  heads  tucked  back  impossibly  into  the 
center  of  their  backs,  scarcely  moving  on  the  unruffled 
surface  as  they  slept  into  the  night.  The  first  sounds  he 
heard  soon  after  dawn  through  his  wide-opened  windows 
were  the  whanging  strokes  of  their  powerful  wings  fly- 
ing low  across  the  misty  water;  they  flew  in  twos  and 
threes,  coming  from  their  nests  now  building  in  the 
marshes  beyond  Villeneuve.  This,  and  the  screaming  of 
the  gulls,  usually  woke  him.  The  summits  of  Savoy,  on 
the  southern  shore,  wore  pink  and  gold  upon  their  heavy 
snows ;  the  sharp  air  nipped ;  far  in  the  west  a  few  stars 

77 


78  The  Wave 

peeped  before  they  faded;  and  in  the  distance  he  heard 
the  faint,  drum-like  mutter  of  a  paddle-steamer,  remind- 
ing him  that  he  was  in  a  tourist  center  after  all,  and  that 
this  was  busy,  little,  organized  Switzerland. 

But  sometimes  it  was  the  beating  strokes  of  the  invisi- 
ble paddle-steamer  that  woke  him,  for  it  seemed  some- 
how a  continuation  of  dreams  he  could  never  properly 
remember.  That  he  had  been  dreaming  busily  every 
night  of  late  he  knew  as  surely  as  that  he  instantly  forgot 
these  dreams.  That  muffled  drum-like  thud,  coming 
nearer  and  nearer  towards  him  out  of  the  quiet  distance, 
had  some  connection — undecipherable  as  yet— with  the 
curious,  dry,  rattling  sound  belonging  to  the  Wave.  The 
two  were  so  dissimilar,  however,  that  he  was  unable  to 
discover  any  theory  that  could  harmonize  them.  Nor, 
for  that  matter,  did  he  seek  it.  He  merely  registered 
a  mental  note,  as  it  were,  in  passing.  The  beating  and  the 
rattling  were  associated. 

He  chose  a  small  and  quiet  hotel,  as  his  liking  was, 
and  made  himself  comfortable,  for  he  might  have  six 
weeks  to  wait  for  Sir  William's  telegram,  or  even  longer, 
if,  as  seemed  likely,  the  summons  came  by  post.  And 
Montreux  was  a  pleasant  place  in  early  spring,  before  the 
heat  and  glare  of  summer  scorched  the  people  out  of  it 
towards  the  heights.  He  took  long  walks  towards  the 
snow-line  beyond  Les  Avants  and  Les  Pleiades,  where 
presently  the  carpets  of  narcissus  would  smother  the 
fields  with  white  as  though  winter  had  returned  and 
flung,  instead  of  crystal  flakes,  a  hundred  showers  of 
white  feathers  upon  the  ground.  He  discovered  paths 
that  led  into  the  whispering  woods  of  pine  and  chestnut. 
The  young  larches  wore  feathery  green  upon  their  crests, 
primroses  shone  on  slopes  where  the  grass  was  still  pale 
and  dead,  snowdrops  peeped  out  beside  the  wooden 
fences,  and  here  and  there,  shining  out  of  the  brown  de- 
cay of  last  year's  leaves  and  thick  ground-ivy,  he  found 
hepaticas.  He  had  never  felt  the  spring  so  marvelous 


The  Wave  79 

before ;  it  rose  in  a  wave  of  color  out  of  the  sweet  brown 
earth. 

Though  outwardly  nothing  of  moment  seemed  to  fill 
his  days,  inwardly  he  was  aware  of  big  events — maturing. 
There  was  this  sense  of  approach,  of  preparation,  of 
gathering.  How  insipid  external  events  were  after  all, 
compared  to  the  mass,  the  importance  of  interior 
changes !  A  change  of  heart,  an  altered  point  of  view,  a 
decision  taken — these  were  the  big  events  of  life. 

Yet  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  senior  partner. 
Here  by  the  quiet  lake,  stroking  himself  complacently, 
he  felt  that  life  was  very  active,  very  significant,  as  he 
wondered  what  the  choice  would  be.  He  rather  hoped 
for  Egypt,  on  the  whole.  He  could  look  up  Tony  and 
the  birds.  They  could  go  after  duck  and  snipe  together 
along  the  Nile.  He  would,  moreover,  be  quite  an  impor- 
tant man  out  there.  Pride  and  vanity  rose  with  the 
Wave  in  him,  but  unobserved.  For  the  Wave  was  in 
this  too. 

One  afternoon,  late,  he  returned  from  a  long  scramble 
among  icy  rocks  about  the  Dent  de  Jaman,  changed  his 
clothes,  and  sat  with  a  cigarette  beside  the  open  window, 
watching  the  throng  of  people  underneath.  In  a  steady 
stream  they  moved  along  the  front  of  the  lake,  their 
voices  rising  through  the  air,  their  feet  producing  a  dull 
murmur  as  of  water.  The  lake  was  still  as  glass;  gulls 
asleep  on  it  and  patches,  and  here  and  there  a  swan, 
looking  like  a  bundle  of  dry  white  paper,  floated  idly. 
Off-shore  lay  several  fishing-boats,  becalmed;  and  far 
beyond  them,  a  rowing-skiff  broke  the  surface  into  two 
lines  of  widening  ripples.  They  seemed  floating  in  mid- 
air against  the  evening  glow.  The  Savoy  Alps  formed 
a  deep  blue  rampart,  and  the  serrated  battlements  of  the 
Dent  du  Midi,  full  in  the  blaze  of  sunset,  blocked  the 
Rhone  Valley  far  away  with  its  formidable  barricade. 

He  watched  the  glow  of  approaching  sunset  with  keen 
enjoyment;  he  sat  back,  listening  to  the  people's  voices, 


80  The  Wave 

the  gentle  lap  of  the  little  waves ;  and  the  pleasant  lassi- 
tude that  follows  upon  hard  physical  exertion  combined 
with  the  even  pleasanter  stimulus  of  the  tea  to  produce 
a  state  of  absolute  contentment  with  the  world.  .  .  . 

Through  the  murmur  of  feet  and  voices,  then,  and  from 
far  across  the  water,  stole  out  another  sound  that  intro- 
duced into  his  peaceful  mood  an  element  of  vague  dis- 
quiet. He  moved  nearer  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
The  steamer,  however,  was  invisible;  the  sea  of  shining 
haze  towards  Geneva  hid  it  still :  he  could  not  see  its  out- 
line. But  he  heard  the  echoless  mutter  of  the  paddle- 
wheels,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  coming  nearer.  Yet  at 
first  it  did  not  disturb  him  so  much  as  that,  for  a  moment, 
he  heard  no  other  sound:  the  voices,  the  tread  of  feet, 
the  screaming  of  the  gulls  all  died  away,  leaving  this  sin- 
gle, distant  beating  audible  alone — as  though  the  entire 
scenery  combined  to  utter  it.  And,  though  no  ordinary 
echo  answered  it,  there  seemed — or  did  he  fancy  it? — a 
faint,  interior  response  within  himself.  The  blood  in  his 
veins  went  pulsing  in  rhythmic  unison  with  this  remote 
hammering  upon  the  water. 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  watching  the  people, 
listening  intently,  almost  as  though  he  expected  something 
to  happen,  when  immediately  below  him  chance  left  a 
temporary  gap  in  the  stream  of  pedestrians,  and  in  this 
gap — for  a  second  merely — a  figure  stood  sharply  defined, 
cut  off  from  the  throng,  set  by  itself,  alone.  His  eyes 
fixed  instantly  upon  its  appearance,  movements,  attitude. 
Before  he  could  think  or  reason  he  heard  himself  ex- 
claim aloud: 

-Why— it's " 

He  stopped.  The  rest  of  the  sentence  remained  un- 
spoken. The  words  rushed  down  again.  He  swallowed, 
and  with  a  gulp  he  ended — as  though  the  other  pedes- 
trians all  were  men — 

" a  woman !" 

The  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  the  cigarette  was 


The  Wave  81 

burning  his  fingers — had  been  burning  them  for  several 
seconds.  The  figure  melted  back  into  the  crowd.  The 
throng  closed  round  her.  His  eyes  searched  uselessly ;  no 
space,  no  gap  was  visible :  the  stream  of  people  was  con- 
tinuous once  more.  Almost,  it  seemed,  he  had  not  really 
seen  her — had  merely  thought  her — up  against  the  back- 
ground of  his  mind. 

For  ten  minutes,  longer  perhaps,  he  sat  by  that  open 
window  with  eyes  fastened  on  the  moving  crowd.  His 
heart  was  beating  oddly ;  his  breath  came  rapidly.  "She'll 
pass  by  presently  again/'  he  thought ;  "she'll  come  back !" 
He  looked  alternately  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  until, 
finally,  the  sinking  sun  blazed  too  directly  in  his  eyes  for 
him  to  see  at  all.  The  glare  blurred  everybody  into  a 
smudged  line  of  golden  color,  and  the  faces  became  a 
series  of  artificial  suns  that  mocked  him. 

He  did,  then,  an  unusual  thing — out  of  rhythm  with 
his  normal  self, — he  acted  on  impulse.  Kicking  his  slip- 
pers off,,  he  quickly  put  on  a  pair  of  boots,  took  his  hat 
and  stick,  and  went  downstairs.  There  was  no  reflection 
in  him;  he  did  not  pause  and  ask  himself  a  single  ques- 
tion :  he  ran  to  join  the  throng  of  people,  moved  up  and 
down  with  them,  in  and  out,  passing  and  re-passing  the 
same  groups  over  and  over  again,  but  seeing  no  sign  of 
the  particular  figure  he  sought  so  eagerly.  She  was 
dressed  in  black,  he  knew,  with  a  black  fur  boa  round  her 
neck:  she  was  slim  and  rather  tall;  more  than  that  he 
could  not  say.  But  the  poise  and  attitude,  the  way  the 
head  sat  on  the  shoulders,  the  tilt  upwards  of  the  chin — 
he  was  as  positive  of  recognizing  these  as  if  he  had  seen 
her  close  instead  of  a  hundred  yards  away. 

The  sun  was  down  behind  the  Jura  Mountains  before 
he  gave  up  the  search.  Sunset  slipped  insensibly  into 
dusk.  The  throng  thinned  out  quickly  at  the  first  sign 
of  chill.  A  dozen  times  he  experienced  the  thrill — his 
heart  suddenly  arrested — of  seeing  her,  but  on  each  occa- 
sion it  proved  to  be  some  one  else.  Every  second  woman 


82  The  Wave 

seemed  to  be  dressed  in  black  that  afternoon,  a  loose 
black  boa  round  the  neck.  His  eyes  ached  with  the  strain, 
the  change  of  focus,  the  question  that  burned  behind 
and  in  them,  the  joy — the  strange  rich  pain. 

But  half,  at  least,  of  these  dull  people,  he  remembered, 
were  birds  of  passage  only;  to-morrow  or  the  next  day 
they  would  take  the  train.  He  said  to  himself  a  dozen 
times,  "Once  more  to  the  end  and  back  again!"  For 
she,  too,  might  be  a  bird  of  passage,  leaving  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day,  leaving  that  very  night,  perhaps.  The 
thought  afflicted,  goaded  him.  And  on  getting  back  to  the 
hotel  he  searched  the  Liste  des  Etrangers  as  eagerly  as 
he  had  searched  the  crowded  front — and  as  uselessly, 
since  he  did  not  even  know  what  name  he  hoped  to  find. 

But  later  that  evening  a  change  came  over  him.  He 
surprised  some  sense  of  humor :  catching  it  in  the  act,  he 
also  surprised  himself  a  little — smiling  at  himself.  The 
laughter,  however,  was  significant.  For  it  was  just  that 
restless  interval  after  dinner  when  he  knew  not  what 
to  do  with  the  hours  until  bed-time :  whether  to  sit  in  his 
room  and  think  and  read,  or  to  visit  the  principal  hotels 
in  the  hope  of  chance  discovery.  He  was  even  consider- 
ing this  wild-goose  chase  to  himself,  when  suddenly  he 
realized  that  his  course  of  procedure  was  entirely  the 
wrong  one. 

This  thing  was  going  to  happen  anyhow,  it  was  inevi- 
table: but — it  would  happen  in  its  own  time  and  way, 
and  nothing  he  might  do  could  hurry  it.  To  hunt  in 
this  violent  manner  was  to  delay  its  coming.  To  behave 
as  usual  was  the  proper  way.  It  was  then  he  smiled. 

He  crossed  the  hall  instead,  and  put  his  head  in  at  the 
door  of  the  little  Lounge.  Some  Polish  people,  with 
whom  he  had  a  bowing  acquaintance,  were  in  there  smok- 
ing. He  had  seen  them  enter,  and  the  Lounge  was  so 
small  that  he  could  hardly  sit  in  their  presence  without 
some  effort  at  conversation.  And,  feeling  in  no  mood 
for  this,  he  put  his  head  past  the  edge  of  the  glass  door, 


The  Wave  83 

glanced  round  carelessly,  as  though  looking  for  some 
one — then  drew  sharply  back.  For  his  heart  stopped 
dead  an  instant,  then  beat  furiously,  like  a  piston  sud- 
denly released.  On  the  sofa,  talking  calmly  to  the  Polish 
people,  was — the  figure.  He  recognized  her  instantly. 

Her  back  was  turned ;  he  did  not  see  her  face.  There 
was  a  vast  excitement  in  him  that  seemed  beyond  control. 
He  seemed  unable  to  make  up  his  mind.  He  walked 
round  and  round  the  little  hall  examining  intently  the 
notices  upon  the  walls.  The  excitement  grew  into  tumult, 
as  though  the  meeting  involved  something  of  immense 
importance — to  his  inmost  self — his  soul.  It  was  difficult 
to  account  for.  Then  a  voice  behind  him  said,  "There 
is  a  concert  to-night.  Radwan  is  playing  Chopin.  There 
are  tickets  in  the  Bureau  still — if  Monsieur  cares  to  go." 
He  thanked  the  speaker  without  turning  to  show  his  face : 
while  another  voice  said  passionately  within  him,  "I  was 
wrong;  she  is  slim,  but  she  is  not  so  tall  as  I  thought." 
And  a  minute  later,  without  remembering  how  he  got 
there,  he  was  in  his  room  upstairs,  the  door  shut  safely 
after  him,  standing  before  the  mirror  and  staring  into  his 
own  eyes.  Apparently  the  instinct  to  see  what  he  looked 
like  operated  automatically.  For  he  now  remembered — 
realized — another  thing.  Facing  the  door  of  the  Lounge 
was  a  mirror,  and  their  eyes  had  met.  He  had  gazed 
for  an  instant  straight  into  the  kind  and  beautiful  Eyes 
he  had  first  seen  twenty  years  ago — in  the  Wave. 

His  behavior  then  became  more  normal.  He  did  the 
little,  obvious  things  that  any  man  would  do.  He  took  a 
clothes-brush  and  brushed  his  coat;  he  pulled  his  waist- 
coat down,  straightened  his  black  tie  and  smoothed  his 
hair,  poked  his  hanging  watch-chain  back  into  its  pocket. 
Then,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  and  compressing  his  lips, 
he  opened  the  door  and  went  downstairs.  He  even  re- 
membered to  turn  off  the  electric  light  according  to  hotel 
instructions.  "It's  perfectly  all  right,"  he  thought,  as 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs.  "Why  shouldn't  I? 


84  The  Wave 

There's  nothing  unusual  about  it."  He  did  not  take  the 
lift,  he  preferred  action.  Reaching  the  salon  floor,  he 
heard  voices  in  the  hall  below.  She  was  already  leaving 
therefore,  the  brief  visit  over.  He  quickened  his  pace. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  notion  in  him  what  he  meant 
to  say.  It  merely  struck  him  that — idiotically — he  had 
stayed  longer  in  his  bedroom  than  he  realized :  too  long ; 
he  might  have  missed  his  chance.  The  thought  urged 
him  forward  more  rapidly  again. 

In  the  hall — he  seemed  to  be  there  without  any  in- 
terval of  time — he  saw  her  going  out ;  the  swinging  doors 
were  closing  just  behind  her.  The  Polish  friends,  having 
said  good-by,  were  already  rising  past  him  in  the  lift. 
A  minute  later  he  was  in  the  street.  He  realized  that,  be- 
cause he  felt  the  cool  night  air  upon  his  cheeks.  He  was 
beside  her — looking  down  into  her  face. 

"May  I  see  you  back — home — to  your  hotel  ?"  he  heard 
himself  saying.  And  then  the  queer  voice — it  must  have 
been  his  own — added  abruptly,  as  though  it  was  all  he 
really  had  to  say:  "You  haven't  forgotten  me  really. 
I'm  Tommy — Tom  Kelverdon." 

Her  reply,  her  gesture,  what  she  did  and  showed  of 
herself  in  a  word,  was  as  queer  as  in  a  dream,  yet  so  nat- 
ural that  it  simply  could  not  have  been  otherwise :  "Tom 
Kelverdon !  So  it  is !  Fancy — you  being  here !"  Then : 
"Thank  you  very  much.  And  suppose  we  walk ;  it's  only 
a  few  minutes — and  quite  dry." 

How  trivial  and  commonplace,  yet  how  wonderful ! 

He  remembers  that  she  said  something  to  a  coachman 
who  immediately  drove  off,  that  she  moved  beside  him 
on  this  Montreux  pavement,  that  they  went  up-hill  a  little, 
and  that,  very  soon,  a  brilliant  door  of  glass  blazed  in 
front  of  them,  that  she  had  said,  "How  strange  that  we 
should  meet  again  like  this.  Do  come  and  see  me — any 
day — just  telephone.  I'm  staying  some  weeks  probably," 
— and  he  found  himself  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  then  walking  wildly  at  a  rapid  pace  downhill — he 


The  Wave  85 

knew  not  whither,  that  he  was  hot  and  breathless,  that 
stars  were  shining,  and  swans,  like  bundles  of  white 
newspaper,  were  asleep  on  the  lake,  and — that  he  had 
found  her. 

He  had  walked  and  talked  with  Lettice.  He  bumped 
into  more  than  one  irate  pedestrian  before  he  realized 
it;  they  knew  it  better  than  he  did,  apparently.  "It  was 
Lettice  Aylmer,  Lettice  .  .  ."  he  kept  saying  to  himself. 
"I've  found  her.  She  shook  hands  with  me.  That  was 
her  voice,  her  touch,  her  perfume.  She's  here — here  in 
little  Montreux — for  several  weeks.  After  all  these 
years!  Can  it  be  true — really  true  at  last?  She  said  I 
might  telephone — might  go  and  see  her.  She's  glad  to 
see  me — again." 

How  often  he  paced  the  entire  length  of  the  deserted 
front  beside  the  lake  he  did  not  count :  it  must  have  been 
many  times,  for  the  hotel  door,  which  closed  at  midnight, 
was  locked  and  the  night-porter  let  him  in.  He  went  to 
bed — if  there  was  rose  in  the  eastern  sky  and  upon  the 
summits  of  the  Dent  du  Midi,  he  did  not  notice  it.  He 
dropped  into  a  half-sleep  in  which  thought  continued  but 
not  wearingly.  The  excitement  of  his  nerves  relaxed, 
soothed  and  mothered  by  something  far  greater  than  his 
senses,  stronger  than  his  rushing  blood.  This  greater 
Rhythm  took  charge  of  him  most  comfortably.  He  fell 
back  into  the  mighty  arms  of  something  that  was  rising 
irresistibly — something  inevitable  and — half-familiar.  It 
had  long  been  gathering ;  there  was  no  need  to  ask  a  thou- 
sand questions,  no  need  to  fight  it  anywhere.  From  the 
moment  when  he  glanced  idly  into  the  Lounge,  he  had 
been  aware  of  it.  It  had  driven  him  downstairs  without 
reflection,  as  it  had  driven  him  also  uphill  till  the  blazing 
door  was  reached.  He  smelt  it,  heard  it,  saw  it,  touched 
it.  It  was  the  Wave. 

Time  certainly  proved  its  unreality  that  night;  the 
hours  seemed  both  endless  and  absurdly  brief.  His  mind 
flew  round  and  round  in  a  circle,  lingering  over  every 


86  The  Wave 

detail  of  the  short  interview  with  a  tumultuous  pleasure 
that  hid  pain  very  thinly.  He  felt  afraid,  felt  himself  on 
the  brink  of  plunging  headlong  into  a  gigantic  whirlpool. 
Yet  he  wanted  to  plunge.  ...  He  would.  ...  He  had 
to.  ...  It  was  irresistible. 

He  reviewed  the  scene,  holding  each  detail  forcibly 
still,  until  the  last  delight  had  been  sucked  out  of  it. 
At  first  he  remembered  next  to  nothing — a  blur,  a  haze, 
the  houses  flying  past  him,  no  feeling  of  pavement  under 
his  feet,  but  only  her  voice  saying  nothing  in  particular, 
her  touch,  as  he  sometimes  drew  involuntarily  against  her 
arm,  her  eyes  shining  up  at  him.  For  her  eyes  remained 
the  chief  impression  perhaps — so  kind,  so  true,  so  very 
sweet  and  frank — soft  Irish  eyes  with  something  mys- 
terious and  semi-eastern  in  them.  The  conversation 
seemed  to  have  entirely  escaped  recovery. 

Then,  one  by  one,  he  remembered  things  that  she  had 
said.  Sentences  offered  themselves  of  their  own  accord. 
He  flung  himself  upon  them,  trying  to  keep  tight  hold 
of  their  first  meaning — before  he  filled  them  with  sig- 
nificance of  his  own.  It  was  a  desperate  business  alto- 
gether; emotion  distorted  her  simple  words  so  quickly. 
"I  was  thinking  of  you  only  to-day.  I  had  the  feeling 
you  were  here.  Curious,  wasn't  it?"  He  distinctly  re- 
membered her  saying  this.  And  then  another  sentence: 
"I  should  have  known  you  anywhere;  though,  of  course, 
you've  changed  a  lot.  But  I  knew  your  eyes.  Eyes  don't 
change  much,  do  they?"  The  meanings  he  read  into 
these  simple  phrases  filled  an  hour  at  least;  he  lost  en- 
tirely their  simple  first  significance.  But  this  last  remark 
brought  up  another  in  its  train.  As  the  tram  went  past 
them  she  had  raised  her  voice  a  little  and  looked  up  into 
his  face — it  was  just  then  they  had  cannonaded.  People 
who  like  one  another  always  cannonade,  he  reflected. 
And  her  remark — "Ah,  it  comes  back  to  me.  You're  so 
very  like  your  sister,  Mary.  I've  seen  her  several  times 


The  Wave  87 

since  the  days  in  Cavendish  Square.  There's  a  strong 
family  likeness/' 

He  disliked  the  last  part  of  the  sentence.  Mary,  be- 
sides, had  mentioned  nothing;  her  rare  letters  made  no 
reference  to  it.  The  schooldays'  friendship  had  evapo- 
rated perhaps.  This  sent  his  thoughts  back  upon  the 
early  trail  of  those  distant  months  when  Lettice  was  at 
a  Finishing  School  in  France  and  he  had  kept  that  tragic 
Calendar.  .  .  . 

Another  sentence  interrupted  them:  "I  had,  oddly 
enough,  been  thinking  of  you  this  very  afternoon.  I 
knew  you  the  moment  you  put  your  head  in  at  the  door, 
but,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  couldn't  get  the  name.  All  I 
got  was  'Tommy !' "  And  only  his  sense  of  humor  pre- 
vented the  obvious  rejoinder,  "I  wish  you  would  always 
call  me  that."  It  struck  him  sharply.  Such  talk  could 
have  no  part  in  a  meeting  of  this  kind ;  the  idea  of  flirta- 
tion was  impossible,  not  even  thought  of.  Yet  twice  she 
had  said  "I  was  thinking  of  you  only  to-day!" 

But  other  things  came  back  as  well.  It  was  strange 
how  much  they  had  really  said  to  each  other  in  those  few 
brief  minutes.  Next  day  he  retraced  the  way  and  discov- 
ered that,  even  walking  quickly,  it  took  him  a  good  half 
hour;  yet  they  had  walked  slowly,  even  leisurely.  But, 
try  as  he  would,  he  was  unable  to  force  deeper  meanings 
into  these  other  remarks  that  he  recalled.  She  was  evi- 
dently pleased  to  see  him,  that  at  least  was  certain,  for 
she  had  asked  him  to  come  and  see  her,  and  she  meant  it. 
He  remembered  his  reply,  "I'll  come  to-morrow — may 
I  ?"  and  then  abruptly  realized  for  the  first  time  that  the 
plunge  was  taken.  He  felt  himself  committed,  sink  or 
swim.  The  Wave  already  had  lifted  him  off  his  feet. 

And  it  was  on  this  his  whirling  thoughts  came  down 
to  rest  at  last,  and  sleep  crept  over  him — just  as  dawn 
was  breaking.  He  felt  himself  in  the  "sea"  with  Lettice, 
there  was  nothing  he  could  do,  no  course  to  choose,  no 
decision  to  be  made.  Though  married,  she  was  somehow 


88  The  Wave 

free — he  felt  it  in  her  attitude.  That  sense  of  fatalism 
known  in  boyhood  took  charge  of  him.  The  Wave  was 
rising  towards  the  moment  when  it  must  invariably  break 
and  fall,  and  every  impulse  in  him  rising  in  it  without 
a  shade  of  denial  or  resistance.  It  would  hurt — the  fall 
and  break  would  cause  atrocious  pain.  But  it  was  some- 
where necessary  to  him.  No  atom  of  him  held  back  or 
hesitated.  For  there  was  joy  beyond  it  somehow — an  in- 
tense and  lasting  joy,  like  the  joy  that  belongs  to  growth 
and  development  after  accepted  suffering. 

Vaguely — not  put  into  definite  words — it  was  this  he 
felt,  when  at  length  sleep  took  him.  Yet  just  before  he 
slept  he  remembered  two  other  little  details — and  smiled 
to  himself  as  they  rose  before  his  sleepy  mind,  yet  not 
understanding  exactly  why  he  smiled :  for  he  did  not 
yet  know  her  name — and  there  was,  of  course,  a  husband. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THIS  resumption  of  a  childhood's  acquaintance  that, 
by  one  at  least,  had  been  imaginatively  coaxed  into 
a  relationship  of  ideal  character,  at  once  took  on  a  stand- 
ing of  its  own.  It  started  as  from  a  new  beginning. 

Tom  Kelverdon  did  not  forget  the  childhood  part,  but 
he  neglected  it  at  first.  It  was  as  if  he  met  now  for  the 
first  time — a  woman  who  charmed  him  beyond  anything 
known  before ;  he  longed  for  her ;  that  he  had  longed  for 
her  subconsciously  these  twenty  years  slipped  somehow 
or  other  out  of  memory.  With  it  slipped  also  those 
strange  corroborative  details  that  imagination  had  clung 
to  so  tenaciously  during  the  interval.  The  Whiff,  the 
Sound,  the  other  pair  of  Eyes,  the  shuffling  feet,  the  joy 
that  cloaked  the  singular  prophecy  of  pain — all  these,  if 
not  entirely  forgotten,  ceased  to  intrude  themselves. 
Even  when  looking  into  her  clear,  dark  eyes,  he  no  longer 
quite  realized  them  as  the  "eastern  eyes"  of  his  dim,  dim 
dream ;  they  belonged  to  a  woman,  and  a  married  woman, 
whom  he  desired  with  body,  heart  and  soul.  Calm  intro- 
spection was  impossible,  he  could  only  feel,  and  feel  in- 
tensely. He  could  not  fuse  this  girl  and  woman  into 
one  continuous  picture:  each  was  a  fragment  of  some 
much  older,  larger  picture.  But  this  larger  canvas  he 
could  never  visualize  successfully.  It  was  colored,  radi- 
ant, gorgeous ;  it  blazed  as  with  gold,  a  gold  of  sun  and 
stars.  But  the  strain  of  effort  caused  rupture  instantly. 
The  vaster  memory  escaped  him.  He  was  conscious  of 
reserve. 

The  comedy  of  telephoning  to  a  name  he  did  not  know 
was  obviated  next  morning  by  the  arrival  of  a  note: 
"Dear  Tom  Kelverdon,"  it  began,  and  was  signed 

89 


90  The  Wave 

"Yours,  Lettice  Jaretzka."  It  invited  him  to  come  up 
for  dejeuner  in  her  hotel.  He  went.  The  luncheon  led 
naturally  to  a  walk  together  afterwards,  and  then  to 
other  luncheons  and  other  walks,  to  evening  rows  upon 
the  lake,  and  to  excursions  into  the  surrounding  country. 
.  .  .  They  had  tea  together  in  the  lower  mountain  inns, 
picked  flowers,  photographed  one  another,  laughed, 
talked  and  sat  side  by  side  at  concerts  or  in  the  little 
Montreux  cinema  theater.  It  was  all  as  easy  and  natural 
as  any  innocent  companionship  well  could  be — because 
it  was  so  deep.  The  foundations  were  of  such  solid 
strength  that  nothing  on  the  surface  trembled.  .  .  . 
Madame  de  Jaretzka  was  well  known  in  the  hotel — she 
came  annually,  it  seemed,  about  this  time  and  made  a 
lengthy  stay — but  no  breath  of  anything  untoward  could 
ever  be  connected  with  her.  He,  too,  was  accepted  by 
one  and  all,  no  glances  came  their  way.  He  was  her 
friend :  that  was  apparently  enough.  And  though  he 
desired  her,  body,  heart  and  soul,  he  was  quick  to  realize 
that  the  first  named  in  the  trio  had  no  role  to  play. 
Something  in  her,  something  of  attitude  and  atmosphere, 
rendered  it  inconceivable.  The  reserve  he  was  conscious 
of  lay  very  deep  in  him ;  it  lay  in  her  too.  There  was  a 
fence,  a  barrier  he  must  not,  could  not  pass — both  recog- 
nized it.  Being  a  man,  romance  for  him  drew  some  ten- 
dril doubtless  from  the  creative  physical,  but  the  shade 
of  passing  disappointment,  if  it  existed,  was  renounced 
as  instantly  as  recognized.  Yet  he  was  not  aware  at  first 
of  any  incompleteness  in  her.  He  felt  only  a  bigger 
thing.  There  was  something  in  this  simple  woman  that 
bore  him  to  the  stars. 

For  simple  she  undoubtedly  was,  not  in  the  way  of 
shallowness,  but  because  her  nature  seemed  at  harmony 
with  itself :  uncomplex,  natural,  frank  and  open,  and 
with  an  unconventional  carelessness  that  did  no  evil  for 
the  reason  that  she  thought  and  meant  none.  She  could 
do  things  that  must  have  made  an  ordinary  worldly 


The  Wave  91 

woman  the  center  of  incessant  talk  and  scandal.  There 
was,  indeed,  an  extraordinary  innocence  about  her  that 
perturbed  the  judgment,  somewhat  baffling  it.  Whereas 
with  many  women  it  might  have  roused  the  suspicion 
of  being  a  pose,  an  affectation,  with  her,  Tom  felt,  it 
was  a  genuine  innocence,  beyond  words  delightful  and 
refreshing.  And  it  arose,  he  soon  discovered,  from  the 
fact  that,  being  good  and  true  herself,  she  thought  every- 
body else  was  also  good  and  true.  This  he  realized  be- 
fore two  days'  intercourse  had  made  it  seem  as  if  they 
had  been  together  always  and  were  made  for  one  an- 
other. Something  bigger  and  higher  than  he  had  ever 
felt  before  stirred  in  him  for  this  woman,  whom  he 
thought  of  now  invariably  as  Madame  de  Jaretzka, 
rather  than  as  Lettice  of  his  younger  dream.  If  she 
woke  something  nobler  in  him  that  had  slept,  he  did  not 
label  it  as  such:  nor,  if  a  portion  of  his  younger  dream 
was  fulfilling  itself  before  his  eyes,  in  a  finer  set  of 
terms,  did  he  think  it  out  and  set  it  down  in  definite 
words.  There  was  this  intense  and  intimate  familiarity 
between  them  both,  but  somehow  he  did  not  call  it  by 
these  names.  He  just  thought  her  wonderful — and 
longed  for  her.  The  reserve  began  to  trouble  him.  .  .  . 

"It's  sweet,"  she  said,  "when  real  people  come  together 
— find  each  other." 

"Again,"  he  added.  "You  left  that  out.  For  I've 
never  forgotten — all  these  years." 

She  laughed.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  con- 
fessed frankly.  "I  hadn't  forgotten  either;  I  often 
thought  of  you  and  wondered — " 

"What  I  was  like  now?" 

"What  you  were  doing,  where  you  were,"  she  said.  "I 
always  knew  what  you  were  like.  But  I  often  wondered 
how  far  on  you  had  got." 

"You  had  no  news  of  me?" 

"None.  But  I  always  believed  you'd  do  something  big 
in  the  world." 


92  The  Wave 

Something  in  her  voice  or  manner  made  it  wholly  natu- 
ral for  him  to  tell  her  of  his  boyhood  love.  He  mentioned 
the  Wave  and  wavy  feeling,  the  nightmare  too,  but  when 
he  tried  to  go  beyond  that,  something  checked  him;  he 
felt  a  sudden  shyness.  It  "sounds  so  silly,"  was  his 
thought.  "But  I  always  know  a  real  person,"  he  said 
aloud,  "anybody  who's  going  to  be  real  in  my  life ;  they 
always  arrive  on  a  wave,  as  it  were.  My  wavy  feeling 
announces  them."  And  the  interest  with  which  she  re- 
sponded prevented  his  regretting  having  made  his  con- 
fession. 

"It's  an  instinct,  I  think,"  she  agreed,  "and  instincts 
are  meant  to  be  listened  to.  I've  had  something  similar, 
though  with  me  it's  not  a  wave."  Her  voice  grew  slower, 
she  made  a  pause;  when  he  looked  up — her  eyes  were 
gazing  across  the  lake  as  though  in  a  moment  of  sudden 
absent-mindedness.  .  .  .  "And  what's  yours?"  he  asked, 
wondering  why  his  heart  was  beating  as  though  some- 
thing painful  was  to  be  disclosed. 

"I  see  a  stream,"  she  went  on  slowly,  still  gazing  away 
from  him  across  the  expanse  of  shining  water,  "a  flow- 
ing stream — with  faces  on  it.  They  float  down  with  the 
current.  And  when  I  see  one  I  know  it's  somebody  real 
— real  to  me.  The  unreal  faces  are  always  on  the  bank. 
I  pass  them  by." 

"You've  seen  mine?"  he  asked,  unable  to  hide  the 
eagerness.  "My  face?" 

"Often,  yes,"  she  told  him  simply.  "I  dream  it  usu- 
ally, I  think:  but  it's  quite  vivid." 

"And  is  that  all?  You  just  see  the  faces  floating  down 
with  the  current?" 

"There's  one  other  thing,"  she  answered,  "if  you'll 
promise  not  to  laugh." 

"Oh,  I  won't  laugh,"  he  assured  her.  "I'm  awfully 
interested.  It's  no  funnier  than  my  Wave,  anyhow." 

"They're  faces  I  have  to  save,"  she  said.  "Somehow 
I'm  meant  to  rescue  them."  In  what  way  she  did  not 


The  Wave  93 

know.  "Just  keep  them  above  water,  I  suppose !"  And 
the  smile  in  her  face  gave  place  to  a  graver  look.  The 
stream  of  faces  was  real  to  her  in  the  way  his  Wave  was 
real.  There  was  meaning  in  it.  "Only  three  weeks  ago," 
she  added,  "I  saw  you  like  that."  He  asked  where  it 
was,  and  she  told  him  Warsaw.  They  compared  notes; 
they  had  been  in  the  town  together,  it  turned  out.  Their 
outer  paths  had  been  converging  for  some  time,  then. 

"Why — did  you  leave?"  he  asked  suddenly.  He 
wanted  to  ask  why  she  was  there  at  all,  but  something 
stopped  him. 

"I  usually  come  here,"  she  said  quietly,  "about  this 
time.  It's  restful.  There's  peace  in  these  quiet  hills 
above  the  town,  and  the  lake  is  soothing.  I  get  strength 
and  courage  here." 

He  glanced  at  her  with  astonishment  a  moment.  Be- 
hind the  simple  language  another  meaning  flashed.  There 
was  a  look  in  the  eyes,  a  hint  in  the  voice  that  betrayed 
her.  .  .  .  He  waited,  but  she  said  no  more.  Not  that 
she  wished  to  conceal,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  to  speak 
of  something.  Warsaw  meant  pain  for  her,  she  came 
here  to  rest,  to  recuperate  after  a  time  of  stress  and 
struggle,  he  felt.  And  looking  at  the  face  he  recognized 
for  the  first  time  that  behind  its  quiet  strength  there  lay 
deep  pain  and  sadness,  yet  accepted  pain  and  sadness  con- 
quered, a  suffering  she  had  turned  to  sweetness.  With- 
out a  particle  of  proof,  he  yet  felt  sure  of  this.  And  an 
immense  respect  woke  in  him.  He  saw  her  saving,  res- 
cuing others,  regardless  of  herself:  he  felt  the  floating 
faces  real;  the  stream  was  life — her  life.  .  .  .  And,  side 
by  side  with  the  deep  respect,  the  bigger,  higher  impulse 
stirred  in  him  again.  Name  it  he  could  not :  it  just  came : 
it  stole  into  him  like  some  rare  and  exquisite  new 
fragrance,  and  it  came  from  her.  .  .  .  He  saw  her  far 
above  him,  stooping  down  from  a  higher  level  to  reach 
him  with  her  little  hand.  .  .  .  He  knew  a  yearning,  to 
climb  up  to  her — a  sudden  and  searching  yearning  in  his 


94  The  Wave 

soul.  "She's  come  back  to  fetch  me,"  ran  across  his 
mind  before  he  realized  it;  and  suddenly  his  heart  be- 
came so  light  that  he  thought  he  had  never  felt  such  hap- 
piness before.  Then,  before  he  realized  it,  he  heard  him- 
self saying  aloud — from  his  heart: 

"You  do  me  an  awful  lot  of  good — really  you  do.  I 
feel  better  and  happier  when  I'm  with  you.  I  feel — " 
He  broke  off,  aware  that  he  was  talking  rather  foolishly. 
Yet  the  boyish  utterance  was  honest;  she  did  not  think 
it  foolish  apparently.  For  she  replied  at  once,  and  with- 
out a  sign  of  lightness : 

"Do  I  ?"    Then  I  mustn't  leave  you,  Tom !" 

"Never!"  he  exclaimed  impetuously. 

"Until  I've  saved  you."  And  this  time  she  did  not 
laugh. 

She  was  still  looking  away  from  him  across  the  water, 
and  the  tone  was  quiet  and  unaccented.  But  the  words 
rang  like  a  clarion  in  his  mind.  He  turned;  she  turned 
too :  their  eyes  met  in  a  brief  but  penetrating  gaze.  And 
for  an  instant  he  caught  an  expression  that  frightened 
him,  though  he  could  not  understand  its  meaning.  Her 
beauty  struck  him  like  a  sheet  of  fire — all  over.  He  saw 
gold  about  her  like  the  soft  fire  of  the  southern  stars. 
With  any  other  woman,  at  any  other  time,  he  would — 
but  the  thought  utterly  denied  itself  before  it  was  half 
completed  even.  It  sank  back  as  though  ashamed.  There 
was  something  in  her  that  made  it  ugly,  out  of  rhythm, 
undesirable,  and  undesired.  She  would  not  respond — she 
would  not  understand. 

In  its  place  another  blazed  up  with  that  strange,  big 
yearning  at  the  back  of  it,  and  though  he  gazed  at  her 
as  a  man  gazes  at  a  woman  he  needs  and  asks  for,  her 
quiet  eyes  did  not  lower  or  turn  aside.  The  cheaper 
feeling,  "I'm  not  worthy  of  you,"  took  in  his  case  a 
stronger  form:  "I'll  be  better,  bigger,  for  you."  And 
then,  so  gently  it  might  have  been  a  mother's  action,  she 
put  her  hand  on  his  with  firm  pressure,  and  left  it  lying 


The  Wave  95 

there  a  moment  before  she  withdrew  it  again.  Her  long 
white  glove,  still  fastened  about  the  wrist,  was  flung 
back  so  that  it  left  the  palm  and  fingers  bare,  and  the 
touch  of  the  soft  skin  upon  his  own  was  marvelous ;  yet 
he  did  not  attempt  to  seize  it,  he  made  no  movement  in 
return.  He  kept  control  of  himself  in  a  way  he^  did  not 
understand.  He  just  sat  and  looked  into  her  face.  There 
was  an  entire  absence  of  response  from  her — in  one  sense. 
Something  poured  from  her  eyes  into  his  very  soul,  but 
something  beautiful,  uplifting.  This  new  yearning  emo- 
tion rose  through  him  like  a  wave,  bearing  him  upwards. 
...  At  the  same  time  he  was  vaguely  aware  of 
a  lack  as  well  ...  of  something  incomplete  and  un- 
awakened.  .  .  . 

"Thank  you — for  saying  that,"  he  was  murmuring;  "I 
shall  never  forget  it ;"  and  though  the  suppressed  passion 
changed  the  tone  and  made  it  tremble  even,  he  held  him- 
self as  rigid  as  a  statue.  It  was  she  who  moved.  She 
leaned  nearer  to  him.  Like  a  flower  the  wind  bends  on 
its  graceful  stalk,  her  face  floated  very  softly  against  his 
own.  She  kissed  him.  It  was  all  very  swift  and  sudden. 
But,  though  exquisite,  it  was  not  a  woman's  kiss.  .  .  . 
The  same  instant  she  was  sitting  straight  again,  gazing 
across  the  blue  lake  below  her. 

"You're  still  a  boy,"  she  said,  with  a  little  innocent 
laugh,  "still  a  wonderful,  big  boy." 

"Your  boy,"  he  returned.    "I  always  have  been." 

There  was  deep,  deep  joy  in  his  heart,  it  lifted  him 
above  the  world — with  her.  Yet  with  the  joy  there  was 
this  faint  touch  of  disappointment  too. 

"But,  I  say — isn't  it  awfully  strange?"  he  went  on, 
words  failing  him  absurdly.  "It's  very  wonderful,  this 
friendship.  It's  so  natural."  Then  he  began  to  flush  and 
stammer. 

In  an  even  tone  of  voice  she  answered :  "It's  wonder- 
ful, Tom,  but  it's  not  strange."  And  again  he  was 


96  The  Wave 

vaguely  aware  that  something  which  might  have  made 
her  words  yet  more  convincing  was  not  there. 

"But  I've  got  that  curious  feeling — I  could  swear  it's 
all  happened  before."  He  moved  closer  as  he  spoke ;  her 
dress  was  actually  against  his  coat,  but  he  could  not  touch 
her.  Something  made  it  impossible,  wrong,  a  false,  even 
a  petty  thing.  It  would  have  taken  away  the  kiss.  "Have 
you?"  he  asked  abruptly,  with  an  intensity  that  seemed 
to  startle  her,  "have  you  got  that  feeling  of  familiarity 
too?" 

And  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  their  talk  they  both, 
for  some  reason,  grew  very  thoughtful.  .  .  . 

"It  had  to  be — perhaps,"  she  answered  simply  a  little 
later.  "We  are  both  real,  so  I  suppose — yes,  it  has  to 
be." 

There  was  the  definite  feeling  that  both  spoke  of  a 
bigger  thing  that  neither  quite  understood.  Their  eyes 
searched,  but  their  hearts  searched  too.  There  was  a 
gap  in  her  that  somehow  must  be  filled,  Tom  felt.  .  .  . 
They  stared  long  at  one  another.  He  was  close  upon  the 
missing  thing — when  suddenly  she  withdrew  her  eyes. 
And  with  that,  as  though  a  wave  had  swept  them  to- 
gether and  passed  on,  the  conversation  abruptly  changed 
its  key.  They  fell  to  talking  of  other  things.  The  man 
in  him  was  again  aware  of  disappointment. 

The  change  was  quite  natural,  nothing  forced  or  awk- 
ward about  it.  The  significance  had  gone  its  way,  but 
the  results  remained.  They  were  in  the  "sea"  together. 
It  "had  to  be."  As  from  the  beginning  of  the  world 
they  belonged  to  one  another,  each  for  the  other — real. 
There  was  nothing  about  it  of  a  text-book  "love  affair," 
absolutely  nothing.  Deeper  far  than  a  passional  relation- 
ship, guiltless  of  any  fruit  of  mere  propinquity,  the  foun- 
dations of  the  sudden  intimacy  were  as  ancient  as  im- 
movable. The  inevitable  touch  lay  in  it.  And  Tom 
knew  this  partly  confirmed,  at  any  rate,  by  the  emotion 
in  him  when  she  said  "my  boy,"  for  the  term  woke  no 


The  Wave  97 

annoyance,  conveyed  no  lightness.  Yet  there  was  a  flavor 
of  disappointment  in  it  somewhere — something  of  neces- 
sary value  that  he  missed  in  her.  ...  To  a  man  in  love 
it  must  have  sounded  superior,  contemptuous:  whereas 
to  him  it  sounded  merely  true.  He  was  her  boy.  This 
mother-touch  was  in  her.  To  care,  to  cherish,  somehow 
even  to  rescue,  she  had  come  to  find  him  out — again.  She 
had  come  back.  ...  It  was  thus,  at  first,  he  felt  it.  From 
somewhere  above,  beyond  the  place  where  he  now  stood 
in  life,  she  had  "come  back,  come  down,  to  fetch  him." 
She  was  further  on  than  he  was.  He  longed  to  stand 
beside  her.  Until  he  did  .  .  .  this  gap  in  her  must  pre- 
vent absolute  union.  On  both  sides  it  was  not  entirely 
natural  as  yet.  .  .  .  Thought  grew  confused  in  him. 

And,  though  he  could  not  understand,  he  accepted  it 
as  inevitable.  The  joy,  moreover,  was  so  urgent  and  up- 
rising, that  it  smothered  a  delicate  whisper  that  yet  came 
with  it — that  the  process  involved  also — pain.  Though 
aware,  from  time  to  time,  of  this  vague  uneasiness,  he 
easily  brushed  it  aside.  It  was  the  merest  gossamer 
thread  of  warning  that  with  each  recurrent  appearance 
became  more  tenuous,  until  finally  it  ceased  to  make  its 
presence  felt  at  all.  .  .  . 

In  the  entire  affair  of  this  sudden  intercourse  he  felt 
the  Wave,  yet  the  Wave  though  steadily  rising,  ceased 
to  make  its  presence  too  consciously  known ;  the  Whiff, 
the  Sound,  the  Eyes  seemed  equally  forgotten:  that  is, 
he  did  not  realize  them.  He  was  living  now,  and  intro- 
spection was  a  waste  of  time,  living  too  intensely  to  re- 
flect or  analyze.  He  felt  swept  onwards  upon  a  tide 
that  was  greater  than  he  could  manage,  for  instead  of 
swimming  consciously,  he  was  borne  and  carried  with  it. 
There  was  certainly  no  attempt  to  stem.  Life  was  rising. 
It  rushed  him  forwards  too  deliciously  to  think.  .  .  . 

He  began  asking  himself  the  old  eternal  question : 
"Do  I  love?  Am  I  in  love— at  last,  then?"  .  .  .  Some 
time  passed,  however,  before  he  realized  that  he  loved, 


98  The  Wave 

and  it  was  in  a  sudden,  curious  way  that  this  realization 
came.  Two  little  words  conveyed  the  truth — some  days 
later  as  they  were  at  tea  on  the  verandah  of  her  hotel, 
watching  the  sunset  behind  the  blue  line  of  the  Jura 
Mountains.  He  had  been  talking  about  himself,  his  engi- 
neering prospects — rather  proudly — his  partnership  and 
the  letter  he  expected  daily  from  Sir  William.  "I  hope 
it  will  be  Assouan,"  he  said,  "I've  never  been  in  Egypt. 
I'm  awfully  keen  to  see  it."-  She  said  she  hoped  so  too. 
She  knew  Egypt  well :  it  enchanted,  even  enthralled  her : 
"familiar  as  though  I'd  lived  there  all  my  life.  A  change 
comes  over  me,  I  become  a  different  person — and  a  much 
older  one;  not  physically,"  she  explained  with  a  curious 
shy  gaze  at  him,  "but  in  the  sense  that  I  feel  a  longer 
pedigree  behind  me."  She  gave  the  little  laugh  that  so 
often  accompanied  her  significant  remarks.  "I  always 
think  of  the  Nile  as  the  'stream'  where  I  see  the  floating 
faces." 

They  went  on  chatting  for  some  minutes  about  it.  Tom 
asked  if  she  had  met  his  cousin  out  there;  yes,  she  re- 
membered vaguely  a  Mr.  Winslowe  coming  to  tea  on  her 
dahabieh  once,  but  it  was  only  when  he  described  Tony 
more  closely  that  she  recalled  him  positively.  "He  inter- 
ested me,"  she  said  then:  "he  talked  wildly,  but  rather 
picturesquely  about  what  he  called  the  'spiral  movement 
of  life,'  or  something."  "He  goes  after  birds,"  Tom  men- 
tioned. "Of  course,"  she  replied,  "I  remember  distinctly 
now.  It  was  something  about  the  flight  of  birds  that  in- 
troduced the  spiral  part  of  it.  He  had  a  good  deal  in 
him,  that  man,"  she  added,  "but  he  hid  it  behind  a  lot 
of  nonsense — almost  purposely,  I  felt." 

"That's  Tony  all  over,"  Tom  assented,  "but  he's  a  rare 
good  sort  and  I'm  awfully  fond  of  him.  He's  'real'  in 
our  sense  too,  I  think." 

She  said  then  very  slowly,  as  though  her  thoughts  were 
far  away  in  Egypt  at  the  moment :  "Yes,  I  think  he  is. 
I've  seen  his  face  too." 


The  Wave  99 

"Floating  down,  you  mean — or  on  the  bank?" 

"Floating,"  she  answered.    "I'm  sure  I  have." 

Tom  laughed  happily.  "Then  you've  got  him  to  rescue 
too/'  he  said.  "But,  remember,  if  we're  both  drowning, 
I  come  first." 

She  looked  into  his  face  and  smiled  her  answer,  touch- 
ing his  fingers  with  her  hand.  And  again  it  was  not  a 
woman's  touch. 

"He  was  in  Warsaw  too  a  few  weeks  ago,"  Tom  went 
on.  "So  we  were  all  three  there  together.  Rather  odd, 
you  know.  He  was  ski-ing  with  me  in  the  Carpathians," 
and  he  described  their  meeting  at  Zakopane  after  the 
long  interval  since  boyhood.  "He  told  me  about  you  in 
Egypt,  too,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  He  mentioned  the 
dahabieh,  but  called  you  a  Russian — yes,  I  remember 
now — and  a  Russian  Princess  into  the  bargain.  Evi- 
dently you  made  less  impression  on  Tony  than — " 

It  was  then  he  stopped  as  though  he  had  been  struck. 
The  idle  conversation  changed.  He  heard  her  interrupt- 
ing words  from  a  curious  distance.  They  fell  like  par- 
ticles of  ice  upon  his  heart. 

"Polish,  of  course,  not  Russian,"  she  mentioned  casu- 
ally, "but  the  rest  is  right,  though  I  never  use  the  title. 
My  husband,  in  his  own  country,  is  a  Prince,  you  see." 

Something  reeled  in  him,  then  instantly  righted  itself. 
For  a  moment  he  felt  as  though  the  freedom  of  their  in- 
tercourse had  received  a  shock  that  blighted  it.  The 
words,  "my  husband,"  struck  chill  and  ominous  into  his 
heart.  The  recovery,  however — almost  simultaneous — 
showed  him  that  both  the  freedom  and  the  intercourse 
were  right  and  unashamed.  She  gave  him  nothing  that 
belonged  to  any  other:  she  was  loyal  and  true  to  that 
other  as  she  was  loyal  and  true  to  himself.  Their  rela- 
tionship was  high  above  mere  passional  intrigue ;  it  could 
exist — in  the  way  she  knew  it,  felt  it — side  by  side  with 
that  other  one,  before  that  other  one's  very  eyes,  if  need 
be.  ...  He  saw  it  true :  he  saw  it  innocent  as  daylight. 


ioo  The  Wave 

.  .  .  For  what  he  felt  was  somehow  this :  the  woman  in 
her  was  not  his,  but  more  than  that — it  was  not  anyone's. 
It  still  lay  dormant.  .  .  . 

If  there  was  a  momentary  confusion  in  his  own  mind, 
there  was  none,  he  felt  positive,  in  hers.  The  two  words 
that  struck  him  such  a  blow,  she  uttered  as  lightly,  in- 
nocently, as  the  rest  of  the  talk  between  them.  Indeed, 
had  that  other — even  in  thought  Tom  preferred  the  para- 
phrase— been  present,  she  would  have  introduced  them 
to  each  other  then  and  there.  He  heard  her  saying  the 
little  phrases  even:  "My  husband,"  and,  "This  is  Tom 
Kelverdon  whom  I've  loved  since  childhood." 

Nothing  brought  more  home  to  him  the  high  innocence, 
the  purity  and  sweetness  of  this  woman  than  the  reflec- 
tions that  flung  after  one  another  in  his  mind  as  he 
realized  that  his  hope  of  her  being  a  widow  was  not  jus- 
tified, and  at  the  same  moment  that  he  desired  exclusive 
possession  of  her — that  he  was  definitely  in  love. 

That  she  was  unaware  of  any  discovery,  even  if  she 
divined  the  storm  in  him  at  all,  was  clear  from  the  way 
she  went  on  speaking.  For,  while  all  this  flashed  through 
his  mind,  she  added  quietly:  "He  is  in  Warsaw  now. 
He — lives  there.  I  go  to  him  for  part  of  every  year." 
To  which  Tom  heard  his  voice  reply  something  as  natural 
and  commonplace  as  "Yes — I  see." 

Of  the  hundred  pregnant  questions  that  presented 
themselves,  he  did  not  ask  a  single  one :  not  that  he  lacked 
the  courage  so  much  as  that  he  felt  the  right  was — not 
yet — his.  Moreover,  behind  her  quiet  words  he  divined 
a  tragedy.  The  suffering  that  had  become  sweetness  in 
her  face  was  half  explained,  but  the  full  revelation  of  it 
belonged  to  "that  other"  and  to  herself  alone.  It  had 
been  their  secret,  he  remembered,  for  at  least  fifteen  years. 


CHAPTER  X 

YET,  knowing  himself  in  love,  he  was  able  to  set  his 
house  in  order.  Confusion  disappeared.  With  the 
method  and  thoroughness  of  his  character  he  looked 
things  in  the  face  and  put  them  where  they  belonged. 
Even  to  wake  up  to  an  untidy  room  was  an  affliction.  He 
might  arrive  in  a  hotel  at  midnight,  but  he  could  not  sleep 
until  his  trunks  were  empty  and  everything  in  its  place. 
In  such  outer  details  the  intensity  of  his  nature  showed 
itself :  it  was  the  intensity,  indeed,  that  compelled  the 
orderliness. 

And  the  morning  after  this  conversation,  he  woke  up 
to  an  ordered  mind — thoughts  and  emotions  in  their 
proper  places  where  he  could  see  and  lay  his  hand  upon 
them.  The  strength  and  weakness  of  his  temperament 
betrayed  themselves  plainly  here,  for  the  security  that 
pedantic  order  brought  precluded  the  perspective  of  a 
larger  vision.  This  careful  labeling  enclosed  him  within 
somewhat  rigid  fences.  To  insist  upon  this  precise  ticket- 
ing had  its  perilous  corollary;  the  entire  view — perspec- 
tive, proportion — was  lost  sight  of. 

"I'm  in  love :  she's  beautiful,  body,  mind  and  soul. 
She's  high  above  me,  but  I'll  climb  up  to  where  she  is." 
This  was  his  morning  thought,  and  the  thought  that  ac- 
companied him  all  day  long  and  every  day  until  the  mo- 
ment came  to  separate  again.  .  .  .  She's  a  married 
woman,  but  her  husband  has  no  claim  on  her."  Some- 
how he  was  positive  of  that;  the  husband  had  forfeited 
all  claim  to  her;  details  he  did  not  know;  but  she  was 
free ;  she  did  no  wrong. 

In  imagination  he  furnished  plausible  details  from  sen- 
sational experiences  life  had  shown  him.  These  may 

101 


102  The  Wave 

have  been  right  or  wrong;  possibly  the  husband  had  ill- 
treated,  then  deserted  her ;  they  were  separated  possibly, 
though — she  had  told  him  this — there  were  no  children 
to  complicate  the  situation.  He  made  his  guesses.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  duty,  however,  that  she  would  not,  did  not 
neglect:  in  fulfilment  of  its  claim  she  went  to  Warsaw 
every  year.  What  it  was,  of  course,  he  did  not  know ; 
but  this  thought  and  the  emotions  caused  by  it,  he  put 
away  into  their  proper  places ;  he  asked  no  questions  of 
her;  the  matter  did  not  concern  him  really.  The  shock 
experienced  the  day  before  was  the  shock  of  realizing 
that — he  loved.  Those  two  significant  words  had  sud- 
denly shown  it  to  him.  The  order  of  his  life  was  changed. 
"She  is  essential  to  me;  I  am  essential  to  her."  But 
"She's  all  the  world  to  me"  involved  equally  "I'm  all  the 
world  to  her."  The  sense  of  his  own  importance  was 
enormously  increased.  The  Wave  surged  upwards  with 
a  sudden  leap.  .  .  . 

There  was  one  thing  lacking  in  this  love,  perhaps, 
though  he  hardly  noticed  it — the  element  of  surprise. 
Ever  since  childhood  he  had  suspected  this  would  happen. 
The  love  was  predestined,  and  in  so  far  seemed  a  de- 
liberate affair,  pedestrian,  almost  calm.  This  sense  of 
the  inevitable  robbed  it  of  that  amazing  unearthly 
glamour  which  steals  upon  those  who  love  for  the  first 
time,  taking  them  deliciously  by  surprise.  He  saw  her 
beautiful,  and  probably  she  was,  but  her  beauty  was  fa- 
miliar to  him.  He  had  come  up  with  the  childhood  dream, 
and  in  coming  up  with  it  he  recognized  it.  It  seemed 
thus  somewhat.  .  .  .  But  her  mind  and  soul  were  beauti- 
ful too,  only  these  were  more  beautiful  than  he  had 
dreamed.  In  that  lay  surprise  and  wonder  too.  There 
was  genuine  magic  here,  discovery  and  exhilarating  nov- 
elty. He  had  not  caught  up  with  that.  The  love  as  a 
whole,  however,  was  expected,  natural.  It  was  inevitable. 
The  familiarity,  alone,  remained  strange,  a  flavor  of  the 
uncanny  about  it  almost — yet  certainly  real. 


The  Wave  103 

And  these  things  also  he  tried  to  face  and  label,  though 
with  less  success.  To  bring  order  into  them  was  beyond 
his  powers.  She  had  outstripped  him  somehow  in  her 
soul,  but  had  come  back  to  fetch  him — also  to  get  some- 
thing for  herself  she  lacked.  The  rest  was  oddly  fa- 
miliar :  it  had  happened  before.  It  was  about  to  happen 
now  again,  but  on  a  higher  level;  only  before  it  could 
happen  completely  he  must  overtake  her.  The  spiral  idea 
lay  in  it  somewhere.  But  the  Wave  contained  and  drove 
it.  ...  His  mind  was  not  supple;  analogy,  that  spir- 
itual solvent,  did  not  help  him.  Yet  the  fact  remained 
that  he  somehow  visualized  the  thing  in  picture  form; 
a  rising  wave  bore  them  charging  up  the  spiral  curve 
to  a  point  whence  they  both  looked  down  upon  a  passage 
they  had  made  before.  She  was  always  a  little  in  front 
of  him,  beyond  him.  But  when  the  Wave  finally  broke 
they  would  rush  together — become  one  .  .  .  there  would 
be  pain,  but  joy  would  follow. 

And  during  all  their  subsequent,  happy  days  of  com- 
panionship this  one  thing  alone  marred  his  supreme  con- 
tentment— this  sense  of  elusiveness,  that  while  he  held 
her  she  yet  slipped  between  his  fingers  and  escaped.  He 
loved ;  but  whereas  to  most  men  love  brings  a  feeling  of 
finality  and  rest,  as  of  a  search  divinely  ended,  to  Tom 
came  the  feeling  that  his  search  was  merely  resumed,  or, 
indeed,  had  only  just  begun.  He  had  not  come  into  full 
possession  of  this  woman :  he  had  only  found  her.  .  .  . 
She  was  deep ;  her  deceptive  simplicity  hid  surprises  from 
him;  much — and  it  was  the  greater  part — he  could  not 
understand.  Only  when  he  came  up  with  that  would  pos- 
session be  complete.  Not  that  she  said  or  did  a  single 
thing  that  suggested  this ;  she  was  not  elusive  of  set  pur- 
pose ;  she  was  entirely  guiltless  of  any  desire  to  hold  back 
a  fraction  of  herself,  and  to  conceal  was  as  foreign  to  her 
nature  as  to  play  with  him ;  but  that  some  part  of  her  hung 
high  above  his  reach  and  that  he,  knowing  this,  admitted 
a  subtle  pain  behind  the  joy.  "I  can't  get  at  her — quite/' 


104  The  Wave 

he  put  it  to  himself.  "Some  part  of  her  is  not  mine  yet — 
doesn't  belong  to  me." 

He  thought  chiefly,  that  is,  of  his  own  possible  disa- 
bilities rather  than  of  hers. 

"I  often  wonder  why  we've  come  together  like  this," 
he  said  once,  as  they  lay  in  the  shade  of  a  larch  wood 
above  Corvaux  and  looked  towards  the  snowy  summits  of 
Savoy.  "What  brought  us  together,  I  mean?  There's 
something  mysterious  about  it  to  me " 

"God,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  needed  me.  You've 
been  lonely.  But  you'll  never  be  lonely  again." 

Her  introduction  of  the  Deity  into  a  conversation  did 
not  displease.  Fate  or  any  similar  word  could  have  taken 
its  place;  she  merely  conveyed  her  sense  that  their  com- 
ing together  was  right  and  inevitable.  Moreover,  now 
that  she  said  it,  he  recognized  the  fact  of  loneliness — that 
he  always  had  been  lonely,  but  that  it  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible. He  felt  like  a  boy  and  spoke  like  a  boy.  She  had 
come  to  look  after,  care  for  him.  She  asked  nothing  for 
herself.  The  thought  gave  him  a  sharp  and  sudden  pang. 

"But  my  love  means  a  lot  to  you,  doesn't  it?"  he  asked 
tenderly.  "I  mean,  you  need  me  too?" 

"Everything,  Tom,"  she  told  him  softly.  He  was  con- 
scious of  the  mother  in  her,  as  though  the  mother  over- 
shadowed the  woman.  But  while  he  loved  it,  the  tinge 
of  resentment  still  remained. 

"You  couldn't  do  without  me,  could  you?"  He  took 
the  hand  she  placed  upon  his  knee  and  looked  up  into  her 
quiet  eyes.  "You'd  be  lonely  too  if — I  went?" 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  down  at  him  and  did  not 
answer;  he  was  aware  of  both  the  pain  and  sweetness  in 
her  face;  an  interval  of  thoughtfulness  again  descended 
on  them  both:  then  a  great  tenderness  came  welling  up 
into  her  eyes  as  she  answered  slowly :  "You  couldn't  go, 
Tom.  You  couldn't  leave  me  ever." 

Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder,  almost  about  his  neck 
as  she  said  it,  and  he  came  in  closer,  and  before  he  knew 


The  Wave  105 

what  he  was  doing  his  face  was  buried  in  her  lap.  Her 
hand  stroked  his  hair.  Twenty-five  years  dropped  from 
him — he  was  a  child  again,  a  little  boy,  and  she,  in  some 
gigantic,  half-impersonal  sense  he  could  not  understand, 
was  mothering  him.  No  foolish  feeling  of  shame  came 
with  it ;  the  mood  was  too  sudden  for  analysis,  it  passed 
away  swiftly  too ;  but  he  knew,  for  a  brief  second,  all 
the  sensations  of  a  restless  and  dissatisfied  boy  who 
needed  above  all  else — comfort :  the  comfort  that  only  an 
inexhaustible  mother-love  could  give.  .  .  .  And  this 
love  poured  from  her  in  a  flood.  Till  now  he  had  never 
known  it,  nor  known  the  need  of  it.  And  because  it  had 
been  curiously  lacking  he  suddenly  wondered  how  he  had 
done  without  it.  A  strange  sense  of  tears  rose  in  his 
heart.  He  felt  pain  and  tragedy  somewhere.  For  there 
was  another  thing  he  wanted  from  her  too.  .  .  .  Through 
the  sparkle  of  his  joy  peeped  out  that  familiar,  strange, 
rich  pain,  but  so  swiftly  he  hardly  recognized  it.  It  with- 
drew again.  It  vanished. 

"But  you  couldn't  leave  me,  either,  could  you?"  he 
asked,  sitting  erect  again.  He  made  a  movement  as 
though  to  draw  her  head  down  upon  his  shoulder  in  the 
protective  way  of  a  man  who  loves,  but — he  could  not  do 
it.  It  was  curious.  She  did  nothing  to  prevent,  only 
somehow  the  position  would  be  a  false  one.  She  did  not 
need  him  in  that  way.  He  was  not  yet  big  enough  to  pro- 
tect. It  was  she  who  protected  him.  And  when  she  an- 
swered the  same  second,  the  familiar  sentence  flashed 
across  his  mind  again  :  "She  has  come  back  to  fetch  me." 

"I  shall  never,  never  leave  you,  Tom.  We're  together 
for  always.  I  know  it  absolutely."  The  girl  of  seventeen, 
the  unawakened  woman  who  was  desired,  the  mother 
who  thought  not  of  herself, — all  three  spoke  in  those 
quiet  words;  but  with  them,  too,  he  was  aware  of  this 
elusive  other  thing  he  could  not  name.  Perhaps  her  eyes 
conveyed  it,  perhaps  the  pain  and  sweetness  in  the  little 
face  so  close  above  his  own.  She  was  bending  over  him. 


io6  The  Wave 

He  looked  up.  And  over  his  heart  rushed  again  that  in- 
tolerable yearning — the  yearning  to  stand  where  she 
stood,  far,  far  beyond  him,  yet  with  it  the  certainty  that 
pain  must  attend  the  effort.  Until  that  pain,  that  effort 
were  accomplished,  she  could  not  entirely  belong  to  him. 
He  had  to  win  her  yet.  Yet  also  he  had  to  teach  her 
something.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  in  the  act  of  protecting, 
mothering  him  she  must  use  pain,  as  to  a  learning  child. 
Their  love  would  gain  completeness  only  thus. 

Yet  in  words  he  could  not  approach  it;  he  knew  not 
how  to. 

"It's  a  strange  relationship,"  he  stammered,  concealing 
as  he  thought  the  deep  emotions  that  perplexed  him. 
"The  world  would  misunderstand  it  utterly."  She  smiled, 

nodding  her  head.  "I  wish "  he  added,  "I  mean  it 

comes  to  me  sometimes — that  you  don't  need  me  quite  as 
I  need  you.  You're  my  whole  life,  you  know — now." 

"You're  growing  imaginative,  Tom,"  she  teased  him, 
smilingly.  Then,  catching  the  earnest  expression  in  his 
face,  she  added :  "My  life  has  been  very  full,  you  see, 
and  I've  always  had  to  stand  alone.  There's  been  so  much 
for  me  to  do  that  I've  had  no  time  to  feel  loneliness  per- 
haps." 

"Rescuing  the  other  floating  faces !" 

A  slight  tinge  of  a  new  emotion  slipped  through  his 
mind,  something  he  had  never  felt  before,  yet  so  faint  he 
could  not  even  recapture  it,  much  less  wonder  whether  it 
were  jealousy  or  envy.  It  rose  from  the  depths ;  it  van- 
ished into  him  again.  .  .  .  Besides,  he  saw  that  she  was 
smiling;  the  teasing  mood  that  so  often  baffled  him  was 
upon  her;  he  heard  her  give  that  passing  laugh  that  al- 
most "kept  him  guessing,"  as  the  Americans  say,  whether 
she  was  in  play  or  earnest. 

"It's  worth  doing,  anyhow — rescuing  the  floating 
faces,"  she  said :  "worth  living  for."  And  she  half  closed 
her  eyes  so  that  he  saw  her  as  a  girl  again.  He  saw  her 
as  she  had  been  even  before  he  knew  her,  as  he  used  to 


The  Wave  107 

see  her  in  his  dream.  It  was  the  dream-eyes  that  peered 
at  him  through  long,  thick  lashes.  They  looked  down  at 
him.  He  felt  caught  away  to  some  remote,  strange  place 
and  time.  He  was  aware  of  gold,  of  color,  of  a  hotter 
blood,  a  fiercer  sunlight.  .  .  . 

And  the  sense  of  familiarity  became  suddenly  very 
real ;  he  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  how  he  would 
answer,  why  they  had  come  together.  It  all  flashed  near, 
yet  still  just  beyond  his  reach.  He  almost  understood. 
They  had  been  side  by  side  like  this  before,  not  in  this 
actual  place,  but  somewhere — somewhere  that  he  knew 
intimately.  Her  eyes  had  looked  down  into  his  own  pre- 
cisely so,  long,  long  ago,  yet  at  the  same  time  strangely 
near.  There  was  a  perfume,  a  little  ghostly  perfume — it 
was  the  Whiff.  It  was  gone  instantly,  but  he  had  tasted 
it.  ...  A  veil  drew  up.  .  .  .  He  saw,  he  knew,  he  re- 
membered— almost.  .  .  .  Another  second  and  he  would 
capture  the  meaning  of  it  all.  Another  moment  and  it 
would  reveal  itself — then,  suddenly,  the  whole  sensation 
vanished.  He  had  missed  it  by  the  minutest  fraction  in 
the  world,  yet  missed  it  utterly.  It  left  him  confused  and 
baffled. 

The  veil  was  down  again,  and  he  was  talking  with 
Madame  Jaretzka,  the  Lettice  Aylmer  of  his  boyhood 
days.  Such  moments  of  the  deja-vu  leave  bewilderment 
behind  them,  like  the  effect  of  sudden  change  of  focus  in 
the  eye ;  and  with  the  bewilderment  a  sense  of  insecurity 
as  well. 

"Yes,"  he  said  half  dreamily,  "and  youVe  rescued  a 
lot  already,  haven't  you?"  as  though  he  still  followed  in 
speech  the  direction  of  the  vanished  emotion. 

"You  know  that,  Tom?"  she  inquired,  raising  her  eye- 
lids, thus  finally  restoring  the  normal. 

He  stammered  rather :  "I  have  the  feeling — that  you're 
always  doing  good  to  some  one  somewhere.  There's 
something" — he  searched  for  a  word — "impersonal  about 
you — almost."  And  he  knew  the  word  was  nearly  right, 


io8  The  Wave 

though  found  by  chance.  It  included  "un-physical,"  the 
word  he  did  not  like  to  use.  He  did  not  want  an  angel's 
love;  the  spiritual,  to  him,  rose  from  the  physical,  and 
was  not  apart  from  it.  He  was  not  in  heaven  yet,  and  had 
no  wish  to  be.  He  was  on  earth ;  and  everything  of  value 
— love,  above  all — must  spring  from  earth,  or  else  remain 
incomplete,  insecure,  ineffective  even. 

And  again  a  tiny  dart  of  pain  shot  through  him.  Yet 
he  was  glad  he  said  it,  for  it  was  true.  He  liked  to  face 
what  hurt  him.  To  face  it  was  to  get  it  over.  ... 

But  she  was  laughing  again  gently  to  herself,  though 
certainly  not  at  him.  "What  were  you  thinking  about 
so  long?"  she  asked.  "You've  been  silent  for  several 
minutes  and  your  thoughts  were  far  away."  And  as  he 
did  not  reply  immediately,  she  went  on:  "If  you  go  to 
Assouan  you  mustn't  fall  into  reveries  like  that  or  you'll 
leave  holes  in  the  dam,  or  whatever  your  engineering 
work  is — TomF 

She  spoke  the  name  with  a  sudden  emphasis  that 
startled  him.  It  was  a  call. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her.  He  was  emerging 
from  a  dream. 

"Come  back  to  me.  I  don't  like  your  going  away  in 
that  strange  way — forgetting  me." 

"Ah,  I  like  that.  Say  it  again/'  he  returned,  a  deeper 
note  in  his  voice. 

"You  were  away — weren't  you  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  can't  say  quite.  I  was 
thinking  of  you,  wherever  I  was."  He  went  on,  holding 
her  eyes  with  a  steady  gaze:  "A  curious  feeling  came 
over  me  like — like  heat  and  light.  You  seemed  so  fa- 
miliar to  me  all  of  a  sudden  that  I  felt  I  had  known  you 

ages  and  ages.     I  was  trying  to  make  out  where — it 
»> 

She  dropped  her  eyelids  again  and  peered  at  him,  but 
no  longer  smiling.  There  was  a  sterner  expression  in  her 
face.  The  lips  curved  a  moment  in  a  new  strange  way. 


The  Wave  109 

The  air  seemed  to  waver  an  instant  between  them.  She 
peered  down  at  him  as  through  a  mist.  .  .  . 

"There— like  that!"  he  exclaimed  passionately.  "Only 
I  wish  you  wouldn't.  There's  something  I  don't  like 
about  it  It  hurts" — and  the  same  minute  felt  ashamed, 
as  though  he  had  said  a  foolish  thing.  It  had  come  out 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"Then  I  won't,  Tom — if  you'll  promise  not  to  go  away 
again.  I  was  thinking  of  Egypt  for  a  second — I  don't 
know  why." 

But  he  did  not  laugh  with  her ;  his  face  kept  the  graver 
expression  still. 

"It  changes  you — rather  oddly,"  he  said  quietly,  "that 
lowering  of  the  eyelids.  I  can't  say  why  exactly,  but  it 
makes  you  look eastern."  Again  he  had  said  a  fool- 
ish thing.  A  kind  of  spell  seemed  over  him. 

"Irish  eyes!"  he  heard  her  saying.  "They  sometimes 
look  like  that,  I'm  told.  But  you  promise,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course,  I  promise,"  he  answered  bluntly  enough 
because  he  meant  it.  "I  can  never  go  away  from  you  be- 
cause"— he  turned  and  looked  very  hard  at  her  a  moment 
— "because  there's  something  in  you  I  need  in  my  very 
soul,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "yet  that  always  escapes  me. 
I  can't  get  hold  of— all  of  you." 

And  though  she  refused  his  very  earnest  mood,  she 
answered  with  obvious  sincerity  at  once.  "That's  as  it 
should  be,  Tom.  A  man  tires  of  a  woman  the  moment 
he  gets  to  the  end  of  her."  She  gave  her  little  laugh  and 
touched  his  hand.  "Perhaps  that's  what  I'm  meant  to 
teach  you.  When  you  know  all  of  me " 

"I  shall  never  know  all  of  you,"  said  Tom. 

"You  never  will,"  she  replied  with  meaning,  "for  I 
don't  even  know  it  all  myself."  And  as  she  said  it,  he 
thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  in  all  the 
world  before,  for  the  breeze  caught  her  long  gauzy  veil 
of  blue  and  tossed  it  across  her  face  so  that  the  eyes 
seemed  gazing  at  him  from  a  distance,  but  a  distance  that 


no  The  Wave 

had  height  in  it.  He  felt  her  above  him,  beyond  him,  on 
this  height,  a  height  he  must  climb  before  he  could  know 
complete  possession. 

"By  Jove !"  he  thought,  "isn't  it  rising  just !"    For  the 
Wave  was  under  them  tremendously. 

April  meanwhile  had  slipped  into  May,  and  their  daily 
companionship  had  become  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,  when  the  telegram  arrived  that  threatened  to  in- 
terrupt the  delightful  intercourse.  But  it  was  not  the 
telegram  Tom  expected.  Neither  Greece  nor  Egypt 
claimed  his  talents  yet,  for  the  contracts  both  at  Assouan 
and  Salonica  were  postponed  until  the  autumn,  and  the 
routine  of  a  senior  partner's  life  in  London  was  to  be 
his  immediate  fate.  He  brought  her  the  news  at  once: 
they  discussed  it  together  in  all  its  details  and  as  inti- 
mately as  though  it  affected  their  joint  lives  similarly. 
His  first  thought  was  to  run  and  talk  it  over  with  her; 
hers,  how  the  change  might  influence  their  intercourse, 
their  present  and  their  future.  Their  relationship  was 
now  established  in  this  solid,  natural  way.  He  told  her 
everything  as  a  son  might  tell  his  mother :  she  asked  ques- 
tions, counseled,  made  suggestions  as  a  woman  whose 
loving  care  considered  his  welfare  and  his  happiness  be- 
fore all  else. 

However,  it  brought  no  threatened  interruption  after 
all — involved,  indeed,  less  of  separation  than  if  he  had 
been  called  away  as  they  expected  :  for  though  he  must  go 
to  London  that  same  week,  she  would  shortly  follow  him. 
"And  if  you  go  to  Egypt  in  the  autumn,  Tom" — she 
smiled  at  the  way  they  influenced  the  future  nearer  to  the 
heart's  desire — "I  may  go  with  you.  I  could  make  my 
arrangements  accordingly — take  my  holiday  out  there 
earlier  instead  of  here  as  usual  in  the  spring." 

The  days  passed  quickly;  her  first  duty  was  to  return 
to  Warsaw;  she  would  then  follow  him  to  London  and 
help  him  with  his  flat.  No  man  could  choose  furniture 


The  Wave  in 

and  carpets  and  curtains  properly.  They  discussed  the 
details  with  the  enthusiasm  of  children :  she  would  come 
up  several  times  a  week  from  her  bungalow  in  Kent  and 
make  sure  that  his  wall-papers  did  not  clash  with  the 
general  scheme.  Brown  was  his  color,  he  told  her,  and 
always  had  been.  It  was  the  dominant  shade  of  her  eyes 
as  well.  He  made  her  promise  to  stand  in  the  rooms  with 
her  eyes  opened  very  wide  so  that  there  could  be  no  mis- 
take, and  they  laughed  over  the  picture  happily. 

She  came  to  the  train,  and  although  he  declared  ve- 
hemently that  he  disliked  "being  seen  off,"  he  was  secretly 
delighted.  "One  says  such  silly  things  merely  because  one 
feels  one  must  say  something.  And  those  silly  things 
remain  in  the  memory  out  of  all  proportion  to  their 
value."  But  she  insisted.  "Good-bys  are  always  serious 
to  me,  Tom.  One  never  knows.  I  want  to  see  you  to  the 
very  last  minute."  She  had  this  way  of  making  him  feel 
little  things  significant  with  Fate.  But  another  little  thing 
also  was  in  store  for  him.  As  the  train  moved  slowly  out 
he  noticed  some  letters  in  her  hand ;  and  one  of  them  was 
addressed  to  Warsaw.  The  name  leaped  up  and  stung 
him — Jaretzka.  A  spasm  of  pain  shot  through  him.  She 
was  leaving  in  the  morning,  he  knew.  .  .  . 

"Write  to  me  from  Warsaw,"  he  said.  "Take  care! 
We're  moving!" 

"I'll  write  every  day,  my  dearest  Tom,  my  boy.  You 
won't  forget  me.  I  shall  see  you  in  a  fortnight." 

He  let  go  the  little  hand  he  held  till  the  last  possible 
minute.  The  bells  drowned  her  final  words.  She  stood 
there  waving  her  hand  with  the  unposted  letters  in  them, 
till  the  station  pillars  intervened  and  hid  her  from  him. 

And  this  time  no  "silly  last  things"  had  been  said  that 
could  "stay  in  the  memory  out  of  all  proportion  to  their 
value."  It  was  something  he  had  noticed  on  the  envelope 
that  stayed — not  the  husband's  name,  but  a  word  in  the 
address,  a  peculiar  Polish  word  he  happened  to  know : — 


ii2  The  Wave 

"Tworki" — the  name  of  the  principal  maison  de  sante 
that  stood  just  outside  the  city  of  Warsaw.  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour,  perhaps  an  hour,  he  sat  smoking  in  his 
narrow  sleeping  compartment,  thinking  with  a  kind  of 
intense  confusion  out  of  which  no  order  came.  ...  At 
Pontarlier  he  had  to  get  out  for  the  Customs  formalities. 
It  was  midnight.  The  stars  were  bright.  The  keen  spring 
air  from  the  wooded  Jura  mountains  had  a  curious  effect, 
for  he  returned  to  his  carriage  feeling  sleepy,  the  throng 
of  pictures  drowned  into  calmness  by  one  master-thought 
that  reduced  their  confusion  into  order.  He  looked  back 
over  the  past  weeks  and  realized  their  intensity.  He  had 
lived.  There  was  a  change  in  him,  the  change  of  growth, 
development.  He  loved.  There  was  now  a  woman  who 
was  his  entire  world,  essential  to  him.  He  was  essential 
to  her  too.  And  the  importance  of  this  ousted  all  lesser 
things,  even  the  senior  partnership.  This  was  the  master- 
thought — that  he  now  lived  for  her.  He  was  "real"  even 
as  she  was  "real,"  each  to  the  other  real.  The  Wave  had 
lifted  him  to  a  level  never  reached  before.  And  it  was 
rising  still.  .  .  . 

He  fell  asleep  on  this,  to  dream  of  a  mighty  stream 
that  swept  them  together  irresistibly  towards  some  climax 
that  he  never  could  quite  see.  She  floated  near  to  save 
him.  She  floated  down.  Her  little  hands  were  stretched. 
It  was  a  gorgeous  and  stupendous  dream — a  dream  of 
rising  life  itself — rising  till  it  would  curve  and  break  and 
fall,  and  the  inevitable  thing  would  happen  that  would 
bring  her  finally  into  his  hungry  arms,  complete,  mother 
and  woman,  a  spiritual  love  securely  founded  on  the  sweet 
and  wholesome  earth.  , 


CHAPTER   XI 

DURING  the  brief  separation  of  a  fortnight  Tom  was 
too  busy  in  London  to  allow  himself  much  reflec- 
tion. Absence,  once  the  first  keen  sense  of  loss  is  over,  is 
apt  to  bring  reaction.  The  self  makes  an  automatic  effort 
to  regain  the  normal  life  it  led  before  the  new  emotion 
dislocated  the  long-accustomed  routine.  It  tries  to  run 
back  again  along  the  line  of  least  resistance  that  habit 
has  made  smooth  and  easy.  If  the  reaction  continues  to 
assert  its  claim,  the  new  emotion  is  proved  thereby  a  de- 
lusion. The  test  lies  there. 

In  Tom's  case,  however,  the  reaction  was  a  feeble  re- 
minder merely  that  he  had  once  lived — without  her.  It 
took  the  form  of  regret  for  all  the  best  years  of  his  life 
he  had  endured — how,  he  could  not  think — without  this 
tender,  loving  woman  at  his  side.  That  is,  he  recognized 
that  his  love  was  real  and  had  changed  his  outlook  funda- 
mentally. He  could  never  do  without  her  from  this  mo- 
ment onwards.  She,  equally,  needed  him.  He  would 
never  leave  her.  .  .  .  Further  than  that,  for  the  present, 
he  did  not  allow  himself  to  think.  Having  divined  some- 
thing of  her  tragedy,  he  accepted  the  definite  limitations. 
Speculations  concerning  another  he  looked  on  as  beside 
the  point.  As  far  as  possible  he  denied  himself  the  in- 
dulgence in  them.  But  another  thing  he  felt  as  well — 
the  right  to  claim  her,  whether  he  exercised  that  right 
or  not. 

Concerning  his  relationship  with  her,  however,  he  did 
not  deny  speculation,  though  somehow  this  time  the  per- 
spective was  too  vast  for  him  to  manage  quite.  There 
was  a  strange  distance  in  it :  he  lost  himself  in  remoteness. 
In  either  direction  it  ran  into  mists  that  were  interminable, 

,"3 


ii4  The  Wave 

as  though  veils  and  curtains  lifted  endlessly,  melting  into 
shadowy  reaches  beyond  that  baffled  all  inquiry.  The 
horizons  of  his  life  had  grown  so  huge.  This  woman 
had  introduced  him  to  a  scale  of  living  that  he  could  only 
gaze  at  with  wondering  amazement  and  delight,  too  large 
as  yet  to  conform  to  the  order  that  his  nature  sought.  He 
could  not  properly  find  himself. 

"It  feels  almost  as  if  I've  loved  her  before  like  this — 
yet  somehow  not  enough.  That's  what  I've  got  to  learn," 
was  the  kind  of  thought  that  came  to  him,  at  odd  moments 
only.  The  situation  seemed  so  curiously  familiar,  yet  only 
half  familiar.  They  were  certainly  made  for  one  an- 
other, and  the  tie  between  them  had  this  deep  touch  of 
the  inevitable  about  it  that  refused  to  go.  That  notion  of 
the  soul's  advance  in  a  spiral  cropped  up  in  his  mind 
again.  He  saw  her  both  coming  nearer  and  retreating — 
as  a  moving  figure  against  high  light  leaves  the  spectator 
uncertain  whether  it  is  advancing  or  retiring.  He  would 
have  liked  to  talk  to  Tony  all  about  it,  for  Tony  would  be 
sympathetic.  He  wanted  a  confidant  and  turned  instinc- 
tively to  his  cousin.  .  .  .  She  already  understood  more 
than  he  did,  though  perhaps  not  consciously,  and  therein 
lay  the  secret  of  her  odd  elusiveness.  Yet,  in  another 
sense,  his  possession  was  incomplete  because  a  part  of  her 
still  lay  unawakened.  "I  must  love  her  more  and  more 
and  more,"  he  told  himself.  But,  at  the  same  time,  he 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  was  indispensable  to  her,  as  she 
was  to  him. 

These  flashes  of  perception,  deeper  than  anything  he 
had  experienced  in  life  hitherto,  came  occasionally  while 
he  waited  in  London  for  her  return ;  and  though  puzzled 
— his  straightforward  nature  disliked  all  mystery — he 
noted  them  with  uncommon  interest.  Nothing,  however, 
could  prevent  the  rise  upwards  of  the  Wave  that  bore  the 
situation  on  its  breast.  The  affair  swept  him  onwards; 
it  was  not  to  be  checked  or  hindered.  He  resigned  direc- 
tion to  its  elemental  tide. 


The  Wave  115 

The  faint  uneasiness,  also,  recurred  from  time  to  time, 
especially  now  that  he  was  alone  again.  He  attributed 
it  to  the  unsatisfied  desire  in  his  heart,  the  knowledge  that 
as  yet  he  had  no  exclusive  possession,  and  did  not  really 
own  her;  the  sense  of  insecurity  unsettled  him,  the  feel- 
ing that  she  was  open  to  capture  by  any  one — "who  under- 
stands and  appreciates  her  better  than  I  do,"  was  the 
way  he  phrased  it  sometimes.  He  was  troubled  and  un- 
easy because  so  much  of  her  lay  unresponsive  to  his  touch 
— not  needing  him.  While  he  was  climbing  up  to  reach 
her,  another,  with  a  stronger  claim,  might  step  in — step 
back — and  seize  her. 

It  made  him  smile  a  little  even  while  he  thought  of  it, 
for  her  truth  and  constancy  were  beyond  all  question. 
And  then,  suddenly,  he  traced  the  uneasiness  to  its  source. 
There  was  "another"  who  had  first  claim  upon  her — who 
had  it  once,  at  any  rate.  Though  at  present  some  cloud 
obscured  and  negatived  that  claim,  the  cloud  might  lift, 
the  situation  change,  the  claim  become  paramount  again, 
as  once  it  surely  had  been  paramount.  And,  disquieting 
though  the  possibility  was,  Tom  was  pleased  with  himself 
— he  was  so  naive  and  simple  towards  life — for  having 
discerned  it  clearly.  He  recognized  the  risk  and  thus  felt 
half  prepared  in  advance.  ...  In  another  way  it  satis- 
fied him  too.  With  this  dream-like  suggestion  that  it  all 
had  happened  before — he  had  always  felt  that  a  further 
detail  was  lacking  to  complete  the  scene  he  half  remem- 
bered. Something,  as  yet,  was  wanting.  And,  this  item 
needed  to  make  the  strange  repetition  of  the  scene  fulfil 
itself,  seemed,  precisely,  the  presence  of  "another." 

Their  intercourse,  meanwhile,  proved  beyond  words 
delightful  during  the  following  weeks,  when,  after  her 
return  from  Warsaw,  she  kept  her  word  and  helped  him 
in  the  prosaic  business  of  furnishing  his  flat  and  settling 
down,  as  in  a  hundred  other  details  of  his  daily  life  as 
well.  All  that  they  did  and  said  together  confirmed  their 
dear  relationship  and  established  it  beyond  reproach. 


n6  The  Wave 

There  was  no  question  of  anything  false,  illicit,  requiring 
concealment :  nothing  to  hide  and  no  one  to  evade.  In 
their  own  minds  their  innocence  was  so  sure,  indeed,  that 
it  was  not  once  alluded  to  between  them.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  look  at  her  and  doubt :  nor  could  the  most  cynical 
suspect  Tom  Kelverdon  of  an  undesirable  intrigue  with 
the  wife  of  another  man.  His  acquaintance,  moreover, 
were  not  of  the  kind  that  harbored  the  usual  "worldly" 
thoughts,  he  went  little  into  society,  whereas  the  compara- 
tively few  Londoners  she  knew  were  almost  entirely — 
he  discovered  it  by  degrees — people  whose  welfare  in  one 
way  or  another  she  had  earnestly  at  heart.  It  was  a 
marvel  to  him,  indeed,  how  she  never  wearied  of  helping 
ungrateful  folk,  for  the  wish  to  be  of  service  seemed  in- 
grained in  her.  Her  first  thought  on  making  new  ac- 
quaintances was  always  what  she  could  do  for  them,  not 
with  money  necessarily,  but  by  "seeing"  them  in  their 
proper  milieu  and  planning  to  bring  about  the  conditions 
they  needed  in  order  to  realize  themselves  fully.  Failure, 
discontent,  unhappiness  were  due  to  wrong  conditions 
more  than  to  radical  fault  in  the  people  themselves ;  once 
they  "found  themselves,"  the  rest  would  follow.  It 
amounted  to  a  genius  in  her. 

It  seemed  the  artist  instinct  that  sought  this  unselfish 
end  rather  than  any  religious  tendency.  She  felt  it  ugly 
to  see  people  at  issue  with  their  surroundings.  Her  re- 
ligion was  humanity,  and  had  no  dogmas.  Even  Tony 
Winslowe,  now  in  England  again,  came  in  for  his  share  of 
this  sweet  fashioning  energy  in  her;  much  to  his  own 
bewilderment  and  to  Tom's  amusement.  .  .  . 

The  summer  passed  towards  early  autumn  and  London 
emptied,  but  it  made  no  difference  to  them.  Tom  had 
urgent  work  to  do  and  was  absorbed  in  it,  never  forgetting 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  now  a  Partner  in  the  Firm. 
He  spent  frequent  week-ends  at  Madame  Jaretzka's  Kent- 
ish bungalow,  where  she  had  for  companion  at  the  mo- 
ment an  Irish  cousin  who,  as  Tom  easily  guessed,  was  also 


The  Wave  117 

a  dependant.  This  cousin  had  been  invited  with  her  child, 
Molly,  for  the  summer  holidays,  and  these  summer  holi- 
days had  run  on  into  three  months  at  least. 

A  tall,  thin,  angular  woman,  of  uncertain  manners  and 
capricious  temperament,  Mrs.  Haughstone  had  perhaps 
lived  so  long  upon  another's  bounty  that  she  had  come  to 
take  her  good  fortune  for  granted,  and  permitted  herself 
freely  two  cardinal  indulgences — grumbling  and  jealousy. 
Having  married  unwisely,  in  order  to  better  herself  rather 
than  because  she  loved,  her  shiftless  husband  had  dis- 
graced himself  with  an  adventuress  governess,  leaving  her 
with  three  children  and  something  below  ^150  a  year. 
Madame  Jaretzka  had  stepped  in  to  bring  them  together 
again :  she  provided  schooling  abroad,  holidays,  doctors, 
clothes  and  all  she  could  devise  by  way  of  helping  them 
"find  themselves"  again,  and  so  turning  their  broken 
lives  to  good  account.  With  the  husband,  sly,  lazy,  de- 
void of  both  pride  and  honesty,  she  could  do  little,  and 
she  was  quite  aware  that  he  and  his  wife  put  their  heads 
together  to  increase  the  flow  of  "necessaries"  she  gener- 
ously supplied. 

It  was  a  sordid,  commonplace  story,  sordidly  treated  by 
the  soured  and  vindictive  wife,  whose  eventual  aims  upon 
her  savior's  purse  were  too  obvious  to  be  mistaken.  Even 
Tom  perceived  the  fact  without  delay.  He  also  perceived, 
behind  the  flattering  tongue,  an  acid  and  suspicious  jeal- 
ousy that  regarded  new  friends  with  ill-disguised  alarm. 
Mrs.  Haughstone  thought  of  herself  and  her  children 
before  all  else.  She  mistook  the  impersonal  attitude  of 
her  benefactress  for  credulous  weakness.  A  new  friend 
was  hostile  to  her  shameless  ambitions  and  disliked  ac- 
cordingly. .  .  .  Tom  scented  an  enemy  the  first  time  he 
met  her.  To  him  she  expressed  her  disapproval  of  Tony, 
and  vice  versa,  while  to  her  hostess  she  professed  she 
liked  them  both — "but":  the  "but"  implying  that  men 
were  selfish  and  ambitious  creatures  who  thought  only  of 
their  own  advantage. 


n8  The  Wave 

His  country  visits,  therefore,  were  not  made  happier 
by  the  presence  in  the  cottage  of  this  woman  and  her 
child,  but  the  manner  in  which  the  benefactress  met  the 
situation  justified  the  respect  he  had  felt  first  months 
before.  It  increased  his  love  and  admiration.  Madame 
Jaretzka  behaved  unusually.  That  she  grasped  the  posi- 
tion there  could  be  no  doubt,  but  her  manner  of  dealing 
with  it  was  unique.  For  when  Mrs.  Haughstone  grum- 
bled, Madame  Jaretzka  gave  her  more,  and  when  Mrs. 
Haughstone  yielded  to  jealousy,  Madame  Jaretzka  smiled 
and  said  no  word.  She  won  her  victories  with  further 
generosity. 

"Another  face  that  has  to  be  rescued  ?"  Tom  permitted 
himself  to  say  once,  after  an  unfortunate  scene  in  which 
his  hostess  had  been  subtly  accused  of  favoritism  to  an- 
other child  in  the  house.  He  could  hardly  suppress  the 
annoyance  and  impatience  that  he  felt. 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  about  it  in  that  way/'  she  an- 
swered with  her  little  laugh,  quite  unruffled  by  what  had 
happened.  "The  best  way  is  to  help  them  to — see  them- 
selves. Then  they  try  to  cure  themselves."  She  laughed 
again,  as  though  she  had  said  a  childish  thing  instead  of 
something  distinctly  wise.  "I  can't  cure  them,"  she  added. 
"I  can  only  help." 

Tom  looked  at  her.  "Help  others  to  see  themselves — 
as  they  are,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "So  that's  how  you  do 
it,  is  it?"  He  reflected  a  moment.  "That's  being  imper- 
sonal. You  rouse  no  opposition  that  way.  It's  good." 

"Is  it?"  she  replied,  as  though  guiltless  of  any  conscious 
plan.  "It  seems  the  natural  thing  to  do." 

Then,  as  he  was  evidently  preparing  for  discussion  in 
his  honest  and  laborious  way,  she  stopped  him  with  a  look, 
smiling,  sighing,  and  holding  up  her  little  finger  warn- 
ingly.  He  understood.  Analysis  and  argument  she 
avoided  always;  they  obscured  the  essential  thing;  here 
was  the  intuitive  method  of  grasping  the  solution  the 
instant  the  problem  was  stated.  Detailed  examination 


The  Wave  119 

exhausted  her  merely.  And  Tom  obeyed  that  look,  that 
threatening  finger.  In  little  things  he  invariably  yielded, 
while  in  big  things  he  remained  firm,  even  obstinate, 
though  without  realizing  it. 

Her  head  inclined  gracefully,  acknowledging  her  vic- 
tory. "That's  one  reason  I  love  you,  Tom,"  she  told  him 
as  reward:  "you're  a  boy  on  the  surface  and  a  man 
inside." 

Tom  saw  beauty  flash  about  her  as  she  said  it ;  emotion 
rose  through  him  in  a  sudden  tumult;  he  would  have 
seized  her,  kissed  her,  crumpled  her  little  self  against  his 
heart  and  held  her  there,  but  for  the  tantalizing  truth  that 
the  thing  he  wanted  would  have  escaped  him  in  the  very 
act.  The  loveliness  he  yearned  for,  craved,  was  not  open 
to  physical  attack;  it  was  a  loveliness  of  the  spirit,  a  bird, 
a  star,  a  wild  flower  on  some  high  pinnacle  near  the  snow : 
to  obtain  it  he  must  climb  to  where  it  soared  above  the 
earth — rise  up  to  her. 

He  laughed  and  took  her  little  finger  in  both  hands. 
He  felt  awkward,  big  and  clumsy,  a  giant  trying  to  catch 
an  elusive  butterfly.  "You  turn  us  all  round  that!"  he 
declared.  "You  turn  her,"  nodding  towards  the  door, 
"and  me,"  kissing  the  tip  quickly,  "and  Tony  too.  Only 
she  and  Tony  don't  know  you  twiddle  them — and  I  do." 

She  let  him  kiss  her  hand,  but  when  he  drew  nearer, 
trying  to  set  his  lips  upon  the  arm  her  summer  dress  left 
bare,  she  put  up  her  face  instead  and  kissed  him  lightly 
on  the  cheek.  Her  free  hand  made  a  caressing  gesture 
across  his  neck  and  shoulder,  as  she  stood  on  tiptoe  to 
reach  him.  The  mother  in  her,  not  the  woman,  caressed 
him  dearly.  It  was  wonderful ;  but  the  surge  of  mingled 
emotions  clouded  something  in  his  brain,  and  a  string  of 
words  came  tumbling  out  in  a  fire  of  joy  and  pain, 
"You're  a  queen  and  a  conqueror,"  he  said,  longing  to 
seize  her,  yet  holding  himself  back  strongly.  "Somewhere 
I'm  your  helpless  slave,  but  somewhere  I'm  your  master." 
The  protective  sense  came  up  in  him.  "It's  too  delicious  1 


i2o  The  Wave 

I'm  in  a  dream!  Lattice,"  he  whispered,  "it's  my  Wave! 
The  Wave  is  behind  it !  It's  behind  us  both !" 

For  an  instant  she  half  closed  her  eyelids  in  the  way 
she  knew  both  pleased  and  frightened  him.  Invariably 
this  gave  her  the  advantage.  He  felt  her  above  him  when 
she  looked  like  this,  he  kneeling  with  hands  outstretched, 
yearning  to  be  raised  to  where  she  stood.  "You're  a 
baby,  a  poet  and  a  man  rolled  fnto  a  dear  big  boy,"  she 
said  quickly*,  moving  towards  the  door  away  from  him. 
"And  now  I  must  go  and  get  my  garden  hat,  for  it's  time 
to  meet  Tony  and  Moyra  at  the  train,  and  as  you  have 
so  much  surplus  energy  to-day  we'll  walk  through  the 
woods  instead  of  going  in  the  motor."  She  waved  her 
hand  and  vanished  behind  the  door.  He  heard  the  patter 
of  her  feet  as  she  ran  upstairs. 

He  went  to  the  open  window,  lit  his  pipe,  leaned  out 
with  his  head  among  the  climbing  roses,  and  thought  of 
many  things.  Great  joy  was  in  him,  but  behind  it,  far 
down  where  he  could  not  reach  it  quite,  hid  a  gnawing 
pain  that  was  obscure  uneasiness.  Pictures  came  floating 
across  his  mind,  rising  and  falling,  sometimes  rushing 
hurriedly;  he  saw  things  and  faces  mixed,  his  own  and 
hers  chief  among  them.  Her  little  finger  pointed  to  a 
star.  He  sighed,  he  wondered,  he  half  prayed.  Would 
he  ever  understand,  rise  to  her  level,  possess  her  for  his 
very  own  ?  She  seemed  so  far  beyond  him.  It  was  only 
part  of  her  he  touched. 

The  faces  fluttered  and  looked  into  his  own,  one  among 
them  an  imagined  face — the  husband's.  It  was  a  face 
with  light  blue  eyes,  moreover.  He  saw  Tony's  too, 
frank,  laughing,  irresponsible,  and  the  face  of  the  Irish 
girl  who  was  Tony's  latest  passion.  Tony  could  settle 
down  to  no  one  for  long.  Tom  remembered  suddenly  his 
remark  at  Zakopane  months  ago,  that  the  bee  never  sipped 
the  last  drop  of  honey  from  the  flower.  .  .  .  His  thoughts 
tumbled  and  flew  in  many  directions,  yet  all  at  once.  Life 
seemed  very  full  and  marvelous;  it  had  never  seemed  so 


The  Wave  121 

intense  before ;  it  bore  him  onwards,  upwards,  forwards, 
with  a  rush  beyond  all  possible  control  and  guidance.  He 
acknowledged  a  rather  delicious  sense  of  helplessness. 
The  Wave  was  everywhere  behind  and  under  him.  It 
was  sweeping  him  along. 

Then  thought  returned  to  Tony  and  the  Irish  girl  who 
were  coming  down  for  the  Sunday,  and  he  smiled  to 
himself  as  he  recalled  his  cousin's  ardent  admiration  at 
a  theater  party  a  few  nights  ago  in  town.  Tony  had 
something  that  naturally  attracted  women,  dominating 
them  too  easily.  Was  he  heartless  a  little  in  the  business  ? 
Would  he  never,  like  Tom,  settle  down  with  one?  His 
thought  passed  to  the  latest  capture:  there  were  signs, 
indeed,  that  here  Tony  was  caught  at  last. 

For  Tom,  Tony,  and  Madame  Jaretzka  formed  an  un- 
derstanding trio,  and  there  were  few  expeditions,  town 
or  country,  of  which  the  lively  bird-enthusiast  did  not 
form  an  active  member.  Tony  took  it  all  very  lightly, 
unaware  of  any  serious  intention  behind  the  pleasant  in- 
vitations. Torn  was  amused  by  it.  He  looked  forward 
to  his  cousin's  visit  now.  He  was  feeling  the  need  of  a 
confidant,  and  Tony  might  so  admirably  fill  the  role.  It 
was  curious,  a  little:  Tom  often  felt  that  he  wanted  to 
confide  in  Tony,  yet  somehow  or  other  the  confidences 
were  never  actually  made.  There  was  something  in  Tony 
that  invited  that  free,  purging  confidence  which  is  a  need 
of  every  human  being.  It  was  so  easy  to  tell  things,  diffi- 
cult things,  to  this  careless,  sympathetic  being;  yet  Tom 
never  passed  the  frontier  into  definite  revelation.  At  the 
last  moment  he  invariably  held  back. 

Thought  passed  to  his  hostess,  already  maneuvering  to 
help  Tony  "find  himself."  It  amused  Tom,  even  while 
he  gave  his  willing  assistance ;  for  Tony  was  of  evasive, 
slippery  material,  like  a  fluid  that,  pressed  in  one  given 
direction,  resists  and  runs  away  into  several  others.  "He 
scatters  himself  too  much,"  she  remarked,  "and  it's  a 
pity;  there's  waste."  Tom  laughed,  thinking  of  his  epi- 


122  The  Wave 

sodic  love  affairs.  "I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  added,  smil- 
ing with  him ;  "I  meant  generally.  He's  full  of  talent  and 
knowledge.  His  power  over  women  is  natural,  but  it 
comes  of  mere  brilliance.  If  all  that  were  concentrated 
instead,  he  would  do  something  real ;  he  might  be  ex- 
traordinarily effective  in  life.  Yes,  Tom,  I  mean  it."  But 
Tom,  though  he  smiled,  agreed  with  her,  feeling  rather 
flattered  that  she  liked  his  cousin. 

"But  he  breaks  too  many  hearts,"  he  said  lightly,  think- 
ing of  his  last  conquest,  and  then  added,  hardly  knowing 
why  he  said  it,  "By  the  by,  did  you  ever  notice  his  hands  ?" 

The  way  she  quickly  looked  up  at  him  proved  that  she 
divined  his  meaning.  But  the  glance  had  a  flash  of  some- 
thing that  escaped  him. 

"You're  very  observant,  Tommy,"  she  said  evasively. 
It  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  say  a  disparaging  thing 
of  anybody.  She  invariably  picked  out  and  emphasized 
the  best.  "You  don't  admire  them  ?" 

"Do  you,  Lettice  ?" 

She  paused  for  an  imperceptible  second,  then  smiled. 
"I  rather  like  big  rough  hands  in  a  man — perhaps,"  she 
said  without  any  particular  interest,  "though — in  a  way — 
they  frighten  me  sometimes.  Tony's  are  ugly,  but  there's 
power  in  them."  And  she  placed  her  own  small  gloved 
hand  upon  his  arm.  "He's  rather  irresponsible,  I  know," 
she  added  gently,  "but  he'll  grow  out  of  that  in  time. 
He's  beginning  to  improve  already." 

"You  see,  he's  got  no  mother,"  Tom  observed. 

"No  wife  either — yet,"  she  added  with  a  laugh. 

"Or  work,"  put  in  Tom,  with  a  touch  of  self-praise,  and 
thinking  of  his  own  position  in  the  world.  Her  interest 
in  Tony  had  the  effect  of  making  himself  seem  worthier, 
more  important.  This  fine  woman,  who  judged  people 
from  so  high  a  standpoint,  had  picked  out — himself !  He 
had  an  absurd  yet  delightful  feeling  as  though  Tony  was 
their  child,  and  the  perfectly  natural  way  she  took  him 


The  Wave  123 

under  her  mothering  wing  stirred  an  admiring  pity  in 
him. 

Then  as  they  walked  together  through  the  fragrant 
pine-woods  to  the  station,  an  incident  at  a  recent  theater 
party  rose  before  his  memory.  Tony  and  his  Amanda 
had  been  with  them.  The  incident  in  question  had  left 
a  singular  impression  on  his  mind,  though  why  it  emerged 
now,  as  they  wandered  through  the  quiet  wood,  he  could 
not  tell.  It  had  occurred  a  week  or  two  ago.  He  now 
saw  it  again — in  a  tenth  of  the  time  it  takes  to  tell : 

The  scene  was  laid  in  ancient  Egypt,  and  while  the 
play  was  commonplace,  the  elaborate  production — 
scenery,  dresses,  atmosphere — were  good.  But  Tom,  un- 
able to  feel  interest  in  the  trivial  and  badly  acted  story, 
had  felt  interest  in  another  thing  he  could  not  name. 
There  was  a  subtle  charm,  a  delicate  glamour  about  it  as 
of  immensely  old  romance,  but  some  lost  romance  of  very 
far  away.  Yet,  whether  this  charm  was  due  to  the  stage 
effects  or  to  themselves,  sitting  there  in  the  stalls  together, 
escaped  him.  For  in  some  singular  way,  the  party,  his 
hostess  certainly,  seemed  to  interpenetrate  the  play  itself. 
She,  above  all,  and  Tony  vaguely,  seemed  inseparable 
from  what  he  gazed  at,  heard  and  felt. 

Continually,  he  caught  himself  thinking  how  delightful 
it  was  to  know  himself  next  to  Madame  Jaretzka,  so  close 
that  he  shared  her  atmosphere,  her  perfume,  touched  her 
even:  that  their  minds  were  engaged  intimately  together 
watching  the  same  scene ;  and  also,  that  on  her  other  side, 
sat  Tony,  affectionate,  whimsical,  fascinating  Tony, 
whom  they  were  trying  to  help  "find  himself" ;  and  that 
he,  again,  was  next  to  a  girl  he  liked.  The  harmonious 
feeling  of  the  four  was  pleasurable  to  Tom.  He  felt 
himself,  moreover,  an  important  and  indispensable  item 
in  its  composition.  It  was  vague;  he  did  not  attempt  to 
analyze  it  as  self-flattery,  as  vanity,  as  pride — he  was 
aware,  merely,  that  he  felt  very  pleased  with  himself  and 


The  Wave 

so  with  everybody  else.  It  was  gratifying  to  sit  at  the 
head  of  the  group ;  everybody  could  see  how  beautiful  she 
was;  the  dream  of  exclusive  ownership  stole  over  him 
more  definitely  than  ever  before.  "She's  chosen  me!  She 
needs  me — a  woman  like  that!" 

The  audience,  the  lights,  the  color,  the  music  influenced 
him.  It  seemed  he  caught  something  from  the  crude 
human  passion  that  was  being  ranted  on  the  stage  and 
transferred  it  unconsciously  into  his  relations  with  the 
party  he  belonged  to,  but,  above  all,  into  his  relationship 
with  her — and  with  another.  But  he  refused  to  let  his 
mind  dwell  upon  that  other.  He  found  himself  thinking 
instead  of  the  divine  tenderness  that  was  in  her,  yet  at 
the  same  time  of  her  elusiveness  and  the  curious  pain  it 
caused  him.  Whence  came,  he  wondered,  the  sweet  and 
cruel  flavor?  It  seemed  like  a  memory  of  something  suf- 
fered long  ago,  the  sweetness  in  it  true  and  exquisite,  the 
cruelty  an  error  on  his  own  part  somehow.  The  old  hint 
of  uneasiness,  the  strange,  rich  pain  he  had  known  in 
boyhood,  stole  faintly  over  him;  its  first  and  immediate 
effect  heightening  the  sense  of  dim,  old-world  romance 
already  present.  .  .  . 

And  he  had  turned  cautiously  to  look  at  her.  She  was 
leaning  forward  a  little  as  though  the  play  absorbed  her, 
and  the  attitude  startled  him.  It  caused  him  almost  a 
definite  shock.  The  face  had  pain  in  it. 

She  was  not  aware  that  he  stared:  her  attention  was 
fastened  upon  the  stage ;  but  the  eyes  were  fixed,  the  little 
mouth  was  fixed  as  well,  the  lips  compressed ;  and  all  her 
features  wore  this  expression  of  curious  pain.  There  was 
sternness  in  them,  something  almost  hard.  He  watched 
her  for  some  minutes,  surprised  and  fascinated.  It  came 
over  him  that  he  almost  knew  what  that  was  in  her  mind. 
Another  moment  and  he  would  discover  it — when,  past 
her  profile,  he  caught  his  cousin's  eyes  peering  across  at 
him.  Tony  had  felt  the  direction  of  his  glance  and  had 
looked  round  :  and  Tony — mischievously — winked ! 


The  Wave  125 

The  spell  was  broken.  In  that  instant,  however, 
through  the  heated  air  of  the  crowded  stalls  already 
weighted  with  sickly  artificial  perfumes,  there  reached  him 
faintly,  as  from  very  far  away,  another  and  a  subtler  per- 
fume, something  of  elusive  fragrance  in  it.  It  was  very 
poignant,  instinct  as  with  forgotten  associations.  It  was 
the  Whiff.  It  came,  it  went;  but  it  was  unmistakable. 
And  he  connected  it,  as  by  some  instantaneous  certitude, 
with  the  play — with  Egypt. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Lettice  ?"  he  had  whispered, 
nodding  towards  the  stage. 

She  turned  with  a  start.  She  came  back.  The  expres- 
sion of  pain  flashed  instantly  away.  She  had  evidently 
not  been  thinking  of  the  performance.  "It's  not  much, 
Tom,  is  it?  But  I  like  the  scenery.  It  makes  me  feel 
strange  somewhere — the  change  that  comes  over  me  in 
Egypt.  We'll  be  there  together — some  day."  She  leaned 
over  with  her  lips  against  his  ear. 

And  there  was  significance  in  the  commonplace  words, 
he  thought — a  significance  her  whisper  did  not  realize,  and 
certainly  did  not  intend. 

"All  three  of  us,"  he  rejoined  before  he  knew  what  he 
meant  exactly. 

And  she  nodded  hurriedly.  Either  she  agreed,  or  else 
she  had  not  heard  him.  He  did  not  insist,  he  did  not  re- 
peat, he  sat  there  wondering  why  on  earth  he  said  the 
thing.  A  touch  of  pain  pricked  him  like  an  insect's  sting, 
but  a  pain  he  could  not  account  for.  His  blood,  at  the 
same  time,  leaped  as  she  bent  her  face  so  near  to  his  own. 
He  felt  his  heart  swell  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  Her 
beauty  astonished  him;  in  this  twilight  of  the  theater  it 
glowed  and  burned  like  a  veiled  star.  He  fancied — it 
was  the  trick  of  the  half-light,  of  course — she  had  grown 
darker  and  that  a  dusky  flush  lay  on  her  cheeks. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about?"  he  whispered  lower 
again,  changing  the  sentence  slightly.  And,  as  he  asked  it, 
he  saw  Tony  still  watching  him,  two  seats  away.  It  an- 


126  The  Wave 

noyed  him ;  he  drew  his  head  back  a  little  so  that  her  face 
concealed  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  whispered  back;  "nothing  in  par- 
ticular." She  put  her  gloved  hand  stealthily  towards  him 
and  touched  his  knee.  The  gesture,  he  felt,  was  intended 
to  supplement  the  words.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
did  not  quite  believe  her.  The  thought  was  odious,  but 
not  to  be  denied.  It  merely  flashed  across  him,  however. 
He  forgot  it  instantly. 

"Seems  oddly  familiar  somehow,"  he  said,  "doesn't  it  ?" 

Again  she  nodded,  smiling,  as  she  gazed  for  a  moment 
first  into  one  eye,  then  into  the  other,  then  turned  away 
to  watch  the  stage.  And  abruptly,  as  she  did  so,  the 
entire  feeling  vanished,  the  mood  evaporated,  her  expres- 
sion was  normal  once  more,  and  he  fixed  his  attention 
on  the  stupid  play. 

He  turned  his  interest  into  other  channels;  he  would 
take  his  party  on  to  supper.  He  did  so.  Yet  an  impres- 
sion remained — the  impression  that  the  Wave  had  come 
nearer,  higher,  that  it  was  rising  and  gaining  impetus, 
accumulating  mass,  momentum,  power.  The  gay  supper 
could  not  dissipate  that,  nor  could  the  happy  ten  minutes 
in  a  taxi,  when  he  drove  her  to  her  door,  decrease  or 
weaken  it.  She  was  very  tired.  They  spoke  little,  he 
remembered;  she  gave  him  a  gentle  touch  as  the  cab 
drew  up,  and  the  few  things  she  said  had  entirely  to  do 
with  his  comfort  in  his  flat.  He  felt  in  that  touch  and 
in  those  tender  questions  the  mother  only.  The  woman, 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  had  gone  elsewhere.  He  had 
never  had  it,  never  even  claimed  it.  A  deep  sense  of 
loneliness  touched  him  for  a  moment.  .  .  . 

Why  the  scene  came  back  to  him  now  as  they  walked 
slowly  through  the  summery  pine-wood  he  knew  not.  He 
caught  himself  thinking  vividly  of  Egypt  suddenly,  of 
being  in  Egypt  with  her — and  with  another.  But  on  that 
other  he  refused  to  let  thought  linger.  Of  set  purpose 


The  Wave  127 

he  chose  Tony  in  that  other's  place.  He  saw  it  in  a  pic- 
ture: he  and  she  together  helping  Tony,  she  and  Tony 
equally  helping  him.  It  passed  before  him  merely,  a 
glowing  colored  picture  set  in  high  light  against  the  heavy 
background  of  these  English  fir-woods  and  the  Kentish 
sky.  Whether  it  came  towards  him  or  retreated,  he  could 
not  say.  It  was  very  brief,  instantaneous  almost.  The 
memory  of  the  play,  with  its  numerous  attendant  corre- 
lations, rose  up,  then  vanished. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  Tom,  you  mighty  giant :  these  pine- 
needles  are  so  slippery."  He  felt  her  hand  creep  in  and 
rest  upon  his  muscles,  and  a  glow  of  boyish  pride  came 
with  it.  In  her  summer  dress  of  white,  her  big  garden 
hat  and  flowing  violet  veil,  she  looked  adorable.  He  liked 
the  long  white  gauntlet  gloves.  The  shadows  of  the  trees 
became  her  well :  against  the  thick  dark  trunks  she  seemed 
slim  and  dainty  as  a  flower  that  the  breeze  bent  over  to- 
wards him.  "You're  so  horribly  big  and  strong,"  she 
said,  and  her  eyes,  full  of  expression,  glanced  up  at  him. 
He  watched  her  little  feet  in  the  neat,  white  shoes  peep 
out  in  turn  as  they  walked  along ;  her  fingers  pressed  his 
arm.  He  tried  to  take  her  parasol,  but  she  prevented 
him,  saying  it  was  her  only  weapon  of  defense  against  a 
giant,  "and  there  is  a  giant  in  this  forest,  though  only  a 
baby  one  perhaps !"  He  felt  the  mother  in  her  pour  over 
him  in  a  flood  of  tenderness  that  blessed  and  soothed  and 
comforted.  It  was  as  if  a  divine  and  healing  power 
streamed  from  her  into  him. 

"And  what  were  you  thinking  about,  Tom?"  she  in- 
quired teasingly.  "You  haven't  said  a  word  for  a  whole 
five  minutes !" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Egypt,"  he  answered  with  truth. 

She  looked  up  quickly. 

"I'm  to  go  out  in  December,"  he  went  on.  "I  told  you. 
It  was  decided  at  our  last  Board  Meeting." 

She  said  she  remembered.    "But  it's  funny,"  she  added, 


128  The  Wave 

"because  I  was  thinking  of  Egypt  too  just  then — thinking 
of  the  Nile,  my  river  with  the  floating  faces." 

The  week-end  visit  was  typical  of  many  others;  Mrs. 
Haughstone,  seeing  safety  in  numbers  possibly,  was  pleas- 
ant on  the  surface,  Molly  deflecting  most  of  her  poisoned 
darts  towards  herself;  while  Tom  and  Tony  shared  the 
society  of  their  unconventional  hostess  with  boyish  en- 
joyment. Tom  modified  the  air  of  ownership  he  indulged 
when  alone  with  her,  and  no  one  need  have  noticed  that 
there  was  anything  more  between  them  than  a  hearty, 
understanding  friendship.  Tony,  for  instance,  may  have 
guessed  the  true  situation,  or,  again,  he  may  not ;  for  he 
said  no  word,  nor  showed  the  smallest  hint  by  word,  by 
gesture,  or  by  silence — most  significant  betrayal  of  all — 
that  he  was  aware  of  any  special  tie.  Though  a  keen  ob- 
server, he  gave  no  sign.  "She's  an  interesting  woman, 
Tom,"  he  remarked  lightly,  yet  with  enthusiasm  once, 
"and  a  rare  good  hostess — a  woman  in  a  thousand,  I  de- 
clare. We  make  a  famous  trio.  As  you've  got  that  As- 
souan job  we'll  have  some  fun  next  winter  in  Egypt,  eh?" 

And  Tom,  pleased  and  secretly  flattered  by  the  admira- 
tion, tried  to  make  his  confidences.  Unless  Tony  had 
liked  her  this  would  have  been  impossible.  But  they 
formed  such  a  natural,  happy  trio  together,  giving  the  lie 
to  the  hoary  proverb,  that  Tom  felt  it  was  permissible  to 
speak  of  her  to  his  sympathetic  cousin.  Already  they  had 
laughingly  discussed  the  half -forgotten  acquaintanceship 
begun  in  the  dahabieh  on  the  Nile,  Tony  making  a  neat 
apology  by  declaring  to  her,  "Beautiful  women  blind  me 
so,  Madame  Jaretzka,  that  I  invariably  forget  all  lesser 
details.  And  that's  why  I  told  Tom  you  were  a  Rus- 
sian." 

On  this  particular  occasion,  too,  it  was  made  easier  be- 
cause Tony  had  asked  his  cousin's  opinion  about  the  Irish 
girl,  invited  for  his  special  benefit.  4T  was  never  so  dis- 
appointed in  my  life,"  he  said  in  his  convincing  yet  airy 


The  Wave  129 

way.  "She  looked  so  wonderful  the  other  night.  It  was 
the  evening  dress,  I  suppose.  You  should  always  see  a 
girl  first  in  the  daytime ;  the  daylight  self  is  the  real  self/' 
And  Tom,  amused  by  the  irresponsible  attitude  towards 
the  sex,  replied  that  the  right  woman  looked  herself  in 
any  dress  because  it  was  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  her 
own  skin.  "Yes/'  said  Tony,  "it's  the  thing  inside  the 
skin  that  counts,  of  course ;  you're  right ;  the  rest  is  only 
a  passing  glamour.  But  friendship  with  a  woman  is  the 
best  of  all,  for  friendship  grows  insensibly  into  the  best 
kind  of  love.  It's  a  delightful  feeling,"  he  added  sym- 
pathetically, "that  kind  of  friendship.  Independent  of 
what  they  wear!" 

He  enjoyed  his  pun  and  laughed.  "I  say,  Tom,"  he 
went  on  suddenly  with  a  certain  inconsequence,  "have 
you  ever  met  the  Prince — Madame  Jaretzka's  husband — 
by  the  way?  I  wonder  what  he's  like."  He  looked  up 
carelessly  and  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"No,"  replied  Tom  in  a  quiet  tone,  "but  I — exp — hope 
to  some  day." 

"I  think  he  ran  away  and  left  her,  or  something,"  con- 
tinued the  other.  "He's  dead,  anyhow,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes.  But  I've  been  wondering  lately.  I'll  be  bound 
there  was  ill-treatment.  She  looks  so  sad  sometimes. 
The  other  night  at  the  theater  I  was  watching  her " 

"That  Egyptian  play  ?"  broke  in  Tom. 

"Yes;  it  was  bad  enough  to  make  any  one  look  sad, 
wasn't  it  ?  But  it  was  curious  all  the  same " 

"I  didn't  mean  the  badness." 

"Nor  did  I.  It  was  odd.  There  was  atmosphere  in 
spite  of  everything." 

"I  thought  you  were  too  occupied  to  notice  the  per- 
formance," Tom  hinted. 

Tony  laughed  good  naturedly.  "I  was  a  bit  taken  up, 
I  admit,"  he  said.  "But  there  was  something  curious  all 
the  same.  I  kept  seeing  you  and  our  hostess  on  the 
stage " 


130  The  Wave 

"In  Egypt !" 

"In  a  way,  yes."    He  hesitated. 

"Odd,"  said  his  cousin  briefly. 

"Very.  It  seemed— there  was  some  one  else  who  ought 
to  have  been  there  as  well  as  you  two.  Only  he  never 
came  on/' 

Tom  made  no  comment.  Was  this  thought-transfer- 
ence, he  wondered  ? 

The  natural  sympathy  between  them  furnished  the 
requisite  conditions  certainly. 

"He  never  came  on,"  continued  Tony,  "and  I  had  the 
queer  feeling  that  he  was  being  kept  off  on  purpose,  that 
he  was  busy  with  something  else,  but  that  the  moment  he 
came  on  the  play  would  get  good  and  interesting — real. 
Something  would  happen.  And  it  was  then  I  noticed 
Madame  Jaretzka " 

"And  me,  too,  I  suppose,"  Tom  put  in,  half  amused, 
half  serious.  There  was  an  excited  yet  uneasy  feeling 
in  him. 

"Chiefly  her,  I  think.  And  she  looked  so  sad, — it  struck 
me  suddenly.  D'you  know,  Tom,"  he  went  on  more 
earnestly,  "it  was  really  quite  curious.  I  got  the  feeling 
that  we  three  were  watching  that  play  together  from 
above  it  somewhere,  looking  down  on  it — sort  of  from  a 
height  above " 

"Above,"  exclaimed  his  cousin.  There  was  surprise  in 
him — surprise  at  himself.  That  faint  uneasiness  in- 
creased. He  realized  that  to  confide  in  Tony  was  impos- 
sible. But  why  ? 

"H'm,"  Tony  went  on  in  a  reflective  way  as  if  half  to 
himself.  "I  may  have  seen  it  before  and  forgotten  it." 
Then  he  looked  up  at  his  cousin.  "And  what's  more — 
that  we  three,  as  we  watched  it,  knew  the  same  thing  to- 
gether— knew  that  we  were  waiting  for  another  chap  to 
come  on,  and  that  when  he  came  the  silly  piece  would 
turn  suddenly  interesting,  dramatic  in  a  true  sense,  only 
tragedy  instead  of  comedy.  Did  you,  Tom?"  he  asked 


The  Wave  131 

abruptly,  screwing  up  his  eyes  and  looking  quite  serious 
a  moment. 

Tom  had  no  answer  ready,  but  his  cousin  left  no  time 
for  answering. 

"And  the  fact  is,"  he  continued,  lowering  his  voice,  "I 
had  the  feeling  the  other  chap  we  were  waiting  for  was 
him." 

Tom  was  too  interested  to  smile  at  the  grammar.  "You 
mean — her  husband?"  he  said  quietly.  He  did  not  like 
the  turn  the  talk  had  taken ;  it  pleased  him  to  talk  of  her, 
but  he  disliked  to  bring  the  absent  husband  in.  There  was 
trouble  in  him  as  he  listened. 

"Possibly  it  was,"  he  added  a  trifle  stiffly.  Then 
ashamed  of  his  feeling  towards  his  imaginative  cousin, 
he  changed  his  manner  quickly.  He  went  up  and  stood 
behind  him  by  the  open  window.  "Tony,  old  boy,  we're 
together  somehow  in  this  thing,"  he  began  impulsively; 
"I'm  sure  of  it."  Then  the  words  stuck.  "If  ever  I  want 
your  help " 

"Rather,  Tom,"  said  the  other  with  enthusiasm,  yet 
puzzled,  turning  with  an  earnest  expression  in  his  frank 
blue  eyes.  In  another  moment,  like  two  boys  swearing 
eternal  friendship  they  would  have  shaken  hands.  Tom 
again  felt  the  impulse  to  make  the  confidences  that  de- 
sire for  sympathy  prompted,  and  again  realized  that  it  was 
difficult,  yet  that  he  would  accomplish  it.  Indeed,  he  was 
on  the  point  of  doing  so,  relieving  his  mind  of  the  child- 
hood story,  the  accumulated  details  of  Wave  and  Whiff 
and  Sound  and  Eyes,  the  singular  Montreux  meeting,  the 
strange  medley  of  joy  and  uneasiness  as  well,  all  in  fact 
without  reserve — when  a  voice  from  the  lawn  came  float- 
ing into  the  room  and  broke  the  spell.  It  lifted  him 
sharply  to  another  plane.  He  felt  glad  suddenly  that  he 
had  not  spoken — afterwards,  he  felt  very  glad.  It  was 
not  right  in  regard  to  her,  he  realized. 

"You're  never  ready,  you  boys,"  their  hostess  was  say- 
ing, "and  Miss  Monnigan  declares  that  men  always  wait 


132  The  Wave 

to  be  fetched.  The  lunch-baskets  are  all  in,  and  the  mo- 
tor's waiting." 

"We  didn't  want  to  be  in  the  way,"  cried  Tony  gaily, 
ever  ready  with  an  answer  first.  "We're  both  so  big  and 
clumsy.  But  we'll  make  the  fire  in  the  woods  and  do  the 
work  that  requires  mere  strength  without  skill  all  right." 
He  leaped  out  of  the  window  to  join  them,  while  Tom 
went  by  the  door  to  fetch  his  cap  and  overcoat.  Turning 
an  instant  he  saw  the  three  figures  on  the  lawn  standing 
in  the  sunlight,  Madame  Jaretzka  with  a  loose,  rough  mo- 
tor-coat over  her  white  dress,  a  rose  at  her  throat  and 
the  long  blue  veil  he  loved  wound  round  her  hair  and  face. 
He  saw  her  eyes  look  up  at  Tony  and  heard  her  chiding 
him.  "You've  been  talking  mischief  in  there  together," 
she  was  saying  laughingly,  giving  him  a  searching  glance 
in  play,  though  the  tone  had  meaning  in  it.  "We  were 
talking  of  you,"  swore  Tony,  "and  you,"  he  added,  turning 
by  way  of  polite  after-thought  to  the  girl.  And  one  of 
his  big  hands  he  laid  for  a  moment  upon  Madame  Ja- 
retzka's  arm. 

Tom  turned  sharply  and  hurried  on  into  the  hall.  The 
first  thought  in  his  mind  was  how  tender  and  gentle 
Madame  Jaretzka  looked  standing  in  the  sunshine,  her 
eyes  turned  up  at  Tony.  His  second  thought  was  vaguer ; 
he  felt  glad  that  Tony  admired  and  liked  her  so.  The 
third  was  vaguer  still :  Tony  didn't  really  care  for  the  girl 
a  bit  and  was  only  amusing  himself  with  her,  but  Madame 
Jaretzka  would  protect  her  and  see  that  no  harm  came  of 
it.  She  could  protect  the  whole  world.  That  was  her 
genius. 

In  a  moment  these  three  thoughts  flashed  through  him, 
but  while  the  last  two  vanished  as  quickly  as  they  came, 
the  first  lingered  like  sunlight  in  him.  It  remained  and 
grew  and  filled  his  heart,  and  all  that  day  it  kept  close 
by  him — her  love,  her  comfort,  her  mothering  compas- 
sion. 

And  Tom  felt  glad  for  some  reason  that  his  confidences 


The  Wave  133 

to  Tony  after  all  had  been  interrupted  and  prevented. 
They  remained  thus  interrupted  and  prevented  until  the 
end,  even  when  the  "other"  came  upon  the  scene,  and 
above  all  while  that  "other"  stayed.  It  all  seemed  curi- 
ously inevitable. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  last  few  weeks  of  September  they  were  much 
alone  together,  for  Mrs.  Haughstone  had  gone  back 
to  her  husband's  tiny  house  at  Kew,  Molly  to  the  Dresden 
school,  and  Tony  somewhere  into  space — northern  Rus- 
sia, he  said,  to  watch  the  birds  beginning  to  leave. 

Meanwhile,  with  deepening  of  friendship,  and  experi- 
ences whose  ordinariness  was  raised  into  significance  be- 
cause this  woman  shared  them  with  him,  Tom  saw  the 
summer  fade  in  England  and  usher  in  the  longer  eve- 
nings. Light  and  heat  waned  from  the  sighing  year; 
winds,  charged  with  the  memory  of  roses,  took  the  paling 
skies;  the  swallows  whispered  together  of  the  southern 
tour.  New  stars  swam  into  their  autumnal  places,  and 
the  Milky  Way  came  majestically  to  its  own.  He  watched 
the  curve  of  it  on  moonless  nights,  pouring  its  grand  river 
across  the  heavens.  And  in  the  heart  of  its  soft  brilliance 
he  saw  Cygnus,  cruciform  and  shining,  immersed  in  the 
white  foam  of  the  arching  wave. 

He  noticed  these  things  now,  as  once  long  ago,  in  early 
boyhood,  because  a  time  of  separation  was  at  hand.  His 
yearning  now  was  akin  to  his  yearning  then — it  left  a 
chasm  in  his  soul  that  beauty  alone  could  help  to  fill. 
At  fifteen  he  was  thirty-five,  as  now  at  thirty-five  he  was 
fifteen  again. 

Lettice  was  not,  indeed,  at  a  Finishing  School  across 
the  Channel,  but  she  was  shortly  going  to  Warsaw  to 
spend  October  with  her  husband,  and  in  November  she 
was  to  sail  for  Egypt  from  Trieste.  Tom  was  to  follow 
in  December,  so  a  separation  of  three  months  was  close 
at  hand.  "But  a  necessary  separation,"  she  said,  one 
evening  as  they  motored  home  beneath  the  stars,  "is  al- 


The  Wave  135 

ways  bearable  and  strengthening;  we  shall  both  be  occu- 
pied with  things  that  must — I  mean,  things  we  ought  to 
do.  It's  the  needless  separations  that  are  hard  to  bear." 
He  replied  that  it  would  be  wonderful  meeting  again  and 
pretending  they  were  strangers.  He  tried  to  share  her 
mood,  her  point  of  view  with  honesty.  "Yes,"  she  an- 
swered, "only  that  wouldn't  be  quite  true,  because  you 
and  I  can  never  be  separated — really.  The  curve  of  the 
earth  may  hide  us  from  each  other's  sight  like  that" — 
and  she  pointed  to  the  sinking  moon,  "but  we  feel  the  pull 
just  the  same." 

They  leaned  back  among  the  cushions,  sharing  the  mys- 
terious beauty  of  the  night-sky  in  their  hearts.  They  low- 
ered their  voices  as  though  the  hush  upon  the  world  de- 
manded it.  The  little  things  they  said  seemed  suddenly 
to  possess  a  significance  they  could  not  account  for  quite 
and  yet  admitted. 

He  told  her  that  the  Milky  Way  was  at  its  best  these 
coming  months,  and  that  Cygnus  would  be  always  visible 
on  clear  nights.  "We'll  look  at  that  and  remember,"  he 
said  half  playfully.  "The  astronomers  say  the  Milky 
Way  is  the  very  ground-plan  of  the  Universe.  So  we  all 
come  out  of  it.  And  you're  Cygnus."  She  called  him 
sentimental,  and  he  admitted  that  perhaps  he  was.  "I 
don't  like  this  separation,"  he  said  bluntly.  In  his  mind 
he  was  thinking  that  the  Milky  Way  had  his  wave  in 
it,  and  that  its  wondrous  arch,  like  his  life  and  hers,  rose 
out  of  the  "sea"  below  the  world.  In  that  sea  no  separa- 
tion was  possible. 

"But  it's  not  that  that  makes  you  suddenly  poetic,  Tom. 
It's  something  else." 

"Is  it  ?"  he  answered.  A  whisper  of  pain  went  past  him 
across  the  night.  He  felt  something  coming;  he  was 
convinced  she  felt  it  too.  But  he  could  not  name  it. 

"The  Milky  Way  is  a  stream  as  well  as  a  wave.  You 

say  it  rises  in  the  autumn ?"  She  leaned  nearer  to 

him  a  little. 


136  The  Wave 

"But  it's  seen  at  its  best  a  little  later — in  the  winter,  I 
believe." 

"We  shall  be  in  Egypt  then,"  she  mentioned.  He  could 
have  sworn  she  would  say  those  very  words. 

"Egypt,"  he  repeated  slowly.     "Yes — in  Egypt." 

And  a  little  shiver  came  over  him,  so  slight,  so  quickly 
gone  again,  that  he  hoped  it  was  imperceptible.  Yet  she 
had  noticed  it. 

"Why,  Tom,  don't  you  like  the  idea?" 

"I  wonder — "  he  began,  then  changed  the  sentence — 
"I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like.  I  have  an  enormous  de- 
sire to  see  it — I  know  that." 

He  heard  her  laugh  under  her  breath  a  little.  What 
came  over  them  both  in  that  moment  he  couldn't  say. 
There  was  a  sense  of  tumult  in  him  somewhere,  a  hint  of 
pain,  of  menace  too.  Her  laughter,  slight  as  it  was,  jarred 
upon  him.  She  was  not  feeling  quite  what  he  felt — this 
flashed,  then  vanished. 

"You  don't  sound  enthusiastic,"  she  said  calmly. 

"I  am,  though.  Only — I  had  a  feeling "  He  broke 

off.  The  truth  was  he  couldn't  describe  that  feeling  even 
to  himself. 

"Tom,  dear,  my  dear  one — "  she  began,  then  stopped. 
She  also  stopped  an  impulsive  movement  towards  him. 
She  drew  back  her  sentence  and  her  arms.  And  Tom, 
aware  of  a  rising  passion  in  him  he  might  be  unable  to 
control,  turned  his  face  away  a  moment.  Something 
clutched  at  his  heart  as  with  cruel  pincers.  A  chill  fol- 
lowed close  upon  the  shiver.  He  felt  a  moment  of  keen 
shame,  yet  knew  not  exactly  why  he  felt  it. 

"I  am  a  sentimental  ass !"  he  exclaimed  abruptly  with  a 
natural  laugh.  His  voice  was  tender.  He  turned  again  to 
her.  "I  believe  I've  never  properly  grown  up."  And 
before  he  could  restrain  himself  he  drew  her  towards  him, 
seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it  like  a  boy.  It  was  that  kiss, 
combined  with  her  blocked  sentence  and  uncompleted  ges- 
ture, rather  than  any  more  passionate  expression  of  their 


The  Wave  137 

love  for  one  another,  that  he  remembered  throughout  the 
empty  months  to  follow. 

But  there  was  another  reason,  too,  why  he  remembered 
it.  For  she  wore  a  silk  dress,  and  the  arm  against  his  ear 
produced  a  momentary  rustling  that  brought  back  the 
noise  in  the  Zakopane  bedroom  when  the  frozen  branch 
had  scraped  the  outside  wall.  And  with  the  Sound,  absent 
now  so  long,  the  old  strange  uneasiness  revived  acutely. 
For  that  caressing  gesture,  that  kiss,  that  phrase  of  love 
that  blocked  its  own  final  utterance  brought  back  the 
strange  rich  pain. 

In  the  act  of  giving  them,  even  while  he  felt  her  touch 
and  held  her  within  his  arms — she  evaded  him  and  went 
far  away  into  another  place  where  he  could  not  follow 
her.  And  he  knew  for  the  first  time  a  singular  emotion 
that  seemed  like  a  faint,  distant  jealousy  that  stirred  in 
him,  yet  a  spiritual  jealousy  .  .  .  and  of  some  one  he  had 
never  even  seen. 

They  lingered  a  moment  in  the  garden  to  enjoy  the 
quiet  stars  and  see  the  moon  go  down  below  the  pine- 
wood.  The  tense  mood  of  half  an  hour  ago  in  the  motor 
car  had  evaporated  of  its  own  accord  apparently. 

A  conversation  that  followed  emphasized  this  elusive 
emotion  in  him,  because  it  somehow  increased  the  re- 
moteness of  the  part  of  her  he  could  not  claim.  She 
mentioned  that  she  was  taking  Mrs.  Haughstone  with  her 
to  Egypt  in  November;  it  again  exasperated  him;  such 
unselfishness  he  could  not  understand.  The  invitation 
came,  moreover,  upon  what  Tom  felt  was  a  climax  of 
shameless  behavior.  For  Madame  Jaretzka  had  helped 
the  family  with  money  that,  to  save  their  pride,  was  to 
be  considered  lent.  The  husband  had  written  gushing 
letters  of  thanks  and  promises  that — Tom  had  seen  these 
letters — could  hardly  have  deceived  a  schoolgirl.  Yet 
a  recent  legacy,  which  rendered  a  part  repayment  possi- 
ble, had  been  purposely  concealed,  with  the  result  that 


i38  The  Wave 

yet  more  money  had  been  "lent"  to  tide  them  over  non- 
existent or  invented  difficulties. 

And  now,  on  the  top  of  this,  Madame  Jaretzka  not  only 
refused  to  divulge  that  the  legacy  was  known  to  her,  but 
even  proposed  an  expensive  two  months'  holiday  to  the 
woman  who  was  tricking  her. 

Tom  objected  strongly  for  two  reasons;  he  thought 
it  foolish  kindness,  and  he  did  not  want  her. 

"You're  too  good  to  the  woman,  far  too  good,"  he  said. 
But  his  annoyance  was  only  increased  by  the  firmness  of 
the  attitude  that  met  him.  "No,  Tom;  you're  wrong. 
They'll  find  out  in  time  that  I  know,  and  see  themselves 
as  they  are." 

"You  forgive  everything  to  everybody,"  he  observed 
critically.  "It's  too  much." 

She  turned  round  upon  him.  Her  attitude  was  a  re- 
buke, and  feeling  rebuked,  he  did  not  like  it.  For  though 
she  did  not  quote  "until  seventy  times  seven,"  she  lived  it. 

"When  she  sees  herself  sly  and  treacherous  like  that, 
she'll  understand,"  came  the  answer,  "she'll  get  her  own 
forgiveness." 

"Her  own  forgiveness!" 

"The  only  real  kind.  If  I  forgive,  it  doesn't  alter  her. 
But  if  she  understands  and  feels  shame  and  makes  up  her 
mind  not  to  repeat — that's  forgiving  herself.  She  really 
changes  then." 

Tom  gasped  inwardly.  This  was  a  level  of  behavior 
where  he  found  the  air  somewhat  rarefied.  He  saw  the 
truth  of  it,  but  had  no  answer  ready. 

"Remorse  and  regret,"  she  went  on,  "only  make  one 
ineffective  in  the  present.  It's  looking  backwards,  instead 
of  looking  forwards." 

He  felt  something  very  big  in  her  as  she  said  it,  hold- 
ing his  eyes  firmly  with  her  own.  To  have  the  love  of 
such  a  woman  was,  indeed,  a  joy  and  wonder.  It  was  a 
keen  happiness  to  feel  that  he,  Tom  Kelverdon,  had  ob- 
tained it.  His  admiration  for  himself,  and  his  deep,  ad- 


The  Wave  139 

miring  love  for  her  rose  side  by  side.  He  did  not  recog- 
nize the  flattery  of  self  in  this  attitude.  The  simplicity 
in  her  baffled  him. 

"I  could  forgive  you  anything,  Lettice !"  he  cried. 

"Could  you?"  she  said  gently.  "If  so,  you  really  love 
me." 

It  was  not  the  doubt  in  her  voice  that  overwhelmed 
him  then;  she  never  indulged  in  hints.  It  was  a  doubt 
in  himself,  not  that  he  loved  her,  but  that  his  love  was 
not  yet  big  enough,  unselfish  enough,  sufficiently  large 
and  deep  to  be  worthy  of  this  exquisite  soul  beside  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  realizing  he  could  not  yet  possess  her 
spirit  that  made  him  seize  the  precious  little  body  that 
contained  it.  Nothing  could  stop  him.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  held  her  till  she  became  breathless.  The 
passionate  moment  expressed  real  spiritual  yearning. 
And  she  knew  it.  She  did  not  struggle,  yet  neither  did 
she  respond.  They  stood  upon  different  levels  some- 
how. 

"There'll  be  nothing  left  to  love,"  she  gasped,  "if  you 
do  that  often !"  She  released  herself  quietly,  tidying  her 
hair  and  putting  her  hat  straight  while  she  smiled  at  him. 
Her  dark  veil  had  caught  in  his  tie-pin.  She  disentangled 
it,  her  hands  touching  his  mouth  as  she  did  so.  He  kissed 
them  gently,  bending  his  head  down  with  an  air  of  re- 
pentance. 

"My  God,  Lettice — you're  precious  to  me!"  he  stam- 
mered. 

But  even  as  he  said  it,  even  while  he  still  felt  her  soft 
cheeks  against  his  lips,  her  frail  unresisting  figure  within 
his  arms,  there  came  this  pang  of  sudden  pain  that  was 
so  acute  it  frightened  him.  There  was  something  im- 
personal in  her  attitude  that  alarmed  him.  What  was  it  ? 
He  was  helpless  to  understand  it.  The  excitement  in 
his  blood  obscured  inner  perception.  .  .  .  Such  tempestu- 
ous moments  were  rare  enough  between  them,  and  when 
they  came  he  felt  that  she  endured  them  rather  than 


140  The  Wave 

responded.  He  was  aware  of  a  touch  of  shame  in  him- 
self. But  this  pain ?  Even  while  he  held  her  it 

seemed  again  that  she  escaped  him  because  of  the  heights 
she  lived  on,  yet,  partly,  too,  because  of  the  innocence 
which  had  not  yet  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  .  .  . 
Was  that,  then,  the  lack  in  her?  Had  she  yet  to  learn 
that  the  spiritual  dare  not  be  divorced  wholly  from  the 
physical  and  that  the  divine  blending  of  the  two  in  purity 
of  heart  alone  brings  safety? 

She  slipped  from  his  encircling  arms  and — rose.  He 
struggled  after  her.  But  that  air  he  could  not  breathe. 
She  was  too  far  above  him.  She  had  to  stoop  to  meet 
the  passionate  man  in  him  that  sought  to  seize  and  hold 
her.  She  had — the  earlier  phrase  returned — come  back 
to  fetch  him.  He  did  not  really  love  yet  as  he  ought 
to  love.  He  loved  himself — in  her;  selfishly  somehow, 
somewhere.  But  this  thought  he  did  not  capture  wholly. 
It  cast  a  shadow  merely  and  was  gone. 

Somewhere,  too,  there  was  jealous  resentment  in  him. 
He  could  not  feel  himself  indispensable  to  a  woman  who 
occupied  a  pinnacle. 

His  cocksureness  wavered  a  little  before  the  sharp 
attack.  Pang  after  pang  stung  him  shrewdly,  stung  his 
pride,  his  confidence,  his  vanity,  shaking  the  platform 
on  which  he  stood  till  each  separate  plank  trembled  and 
the  sense  of  security  grew  less. 

But  the  confusion  in  his  heart  and  mind  bewildered 
him.  It  was  all  so  strange  and  incomprehensible;  he 
could  not  understand  it.  He  knew  she  was  true  and  loyal, 
her  purity  beyond  reproach,  her  elusiveness  not  calcu- 
lated or  intended,  yet  that  somewhere,  somehow  she  could 
do  without  him,  and  that  if  he  left  her  she — almost — 
would  have  neither  remorse  nor  regret.  She  would  just 
accept  it  and — forgive.  .  .  . 

And  he  thought  suddenly  with  an  intense  bitterness 
that  amazed  him — of  the  husband.  The  thought  of  that 
"other"  who  had  yet  to  come  afflicted  him  desperately. 


The  Wave  141 

When  he  met  those  light-blue  eyes  of  the  Wave  he  would 
surely  know  them  .  .  .  !  He  felt  again  the  desire  to 
seek  counsel  and  advice  from  another,  some  one  of  his 
own  sex,  a  sympathetic  and  understanding  soul  like  Tony. 

The  turmoil  in  him  was  beyond  elucidation:  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  nameless  kind  combined  to  produce  a 
fluid  state  of  insecurity  he  could  not  explain.  As  usual, 
however,  there  emerged  finally  the  solid  fact  which 
seemed  now  the  keynote  of  his  character;  at  least,  he 
invariably  fell  back  upon  it  for  support  against  these 
occasional  storms :  "She  has  singled  me  out ;  she  can't 
really  do  without  me ;  we're  necessary  to  each  other ;  I'm 
safe."  The  rest  he  dismissed  as  half  realized  only  and 
therefore  not  quite  real.  His  position  with  her  was 
unique,  of  course,  something  the  world  could  not  possi- 
bly understand,  and,  while  resenting  what  he  called  the 
"impersonal"  attitude  in  her,  he  yet  knew  that  it  was 
precisely  this  impersonal  attitude  that  justified  their  love. 
Their  love,  in  fine,  was  proved  spiritual  thereby.  They 
were  in  the  "sea"  together.  Invariably  in  the  end  he 
blamed  himself. 

The  rising  Wave,  it  seemed,  was  bringing  up  from 
day  to  day  new,  unexpected  qualities  from  the  depths 
within  him,  just  as  it  brings  up  mud  and  gravel  from 
the  ground-bed  of  the  shore.  He  felt  it  driving  him  for- 
ward with  increasing  speed  and  power.  With  an  irre- 
sistible momentum  that  left  him  helpless,  it  was  hurry- 
ing him  along  towards  the  moment  when  it  would  lower 
its  crest  again  towards  the  earth — and  break. 

He  knew  now  where  the  smothering  crash  would  come, 
where  he  would  finally  meet  the  singular  details  of  his 
boyhood's  premonition  face  to  face, — the  Sound,  the 
Whiff,  the  other  pair  of  Eyes.  They  awaited  him — in 
Egypt.  In  Egypt,  at  last,  he  would  find  the  entire  series, 
recognize  each  item.  He  would  also  discover  the  nature 
of  the  wave  that  was  neither  of  water  nor  of  snow.  .  .  . 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  when  he  actually  met  the  pair  of 


142  The  Wave 

light-blue  eyes,  he  did  not  recognize  them.  He  encoun- 
tered the  face  to  which  they  belonged,  but  was  not 
warned.  While  fulfilling  its  prophecy,  the  premonition 
failed,  of  course,  to  operate. 

For  premonitions  are  a  delicate  matter,  losing  their 
power  in  the  act  of  justifying  themselves.  To  prevent 
their  fulfilment  were  to  stultify  their  existence.  Between 
a  spiritual  warning  and  its  material  consummation  there 
is  but  a  friable  and  gossamer  alliance.  Had  he  recog- 
nized, he  might  possibly  have  prevented;  whereas  the 
deeper  part  of  him  unconsciously  invited  and  said, 
Come. 

And  so,  not  recognizing  the  arrival  of  the  other  pair 
of  eyes,  Tom,  when  he  met  them,  knew  himself  attracted 
instead  of  repelled.  Far  from  being  warned,  he  knew 
himself  drawn  towards  their  owner  by  natural  sympathy, 
as  towards  some  one  whose  deep  intrusion  into  his  inner 
life  was  necessary  to  its  fuller  realization — the  tumul- 
tuous breaking  of  the  rapidly  accumulating  Wave. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  weeks  that  followed  seemed  both  brief  and  long 
to  Tom.  The  separation  he  felt  keenly,  though  as 
a  breathing  spell  the  interval  was  even  welcome  in  a  meas- 
ure. Since  the  days  at  Montreux  he  had  been  living  in- 
tensely, swept  along  by  a  movement  he  could  not  control : 
now  he  could  pause  and  think  a  moment.  He  tried  to  get 
the  bird's-eye  view  in  which  alone  details  are  seen  in 
their  accurate  relations  and  proportions.  There  was  much 
that  perplexed  his  plain,  straightforward  nature.  But 
the  more  he  thought,  the  more  puzzled  he  became,  and  in 
the  end  he  resigned  himself  happily  to  the  great  flow  of 
life  that  was  sweeping  him  along.  He  was  distinctly  con- 
scious of  being  "swept  along."  What  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, would  happen.  He  wondered,  watched  and  waited. 
The  idea  of  Egypt,  meanwhile,  thrilled  him  with  a  curi- 
ous anticipation  each  time  he  thought  of  it.  And  he 
thought  of  it  a  good  deal. 

He  received  letters  from  Warsaw,  but  they  told  nothing 
of  her  life  there :  she  referred  vaguely  to  duties  whose 
afflicting  nature  he  half  guessed  now ;  and  the  rest  was 
filled  with  loving  solicitude  for  his  welfare.  Even 
through  the  post  she  mothered  him  absurdly.  He  felt  his 
life  now  based  upon  her.  Her  love  was  indispensable  to 
him. 

The  last  letters — from  Vienna  and  Trieste — were  full 
of  a  tenderness  most  comforting,  and  he  felt  relief  that 
she  had  "finished  with  Warsaw,"  as  he  put  it.  His  own 
last  letter  was  timed  to  catch  her  steamer.  "You  have 
all  my  love,"  he  wrote,  "but  you  can  give  what  you  can 
spare  to  Tony,  as  he's  in  Egypt  by  now,  and  tell  him  I 
shall  be  out  a  month  from  to-day.  Everything  goes  well 


146  The  Wave 

here.  I'm  to  have  full  charge  of  the  work  at  Assouan. 
The  Firm  has  put  everything  in  my  hands,  but  there  won't 
be  much  to  do  at  first,  and  I  shall  be  with  you  at  Luxor 
a  great  deal.  I'm  looking  forward  to  Egypt  too — im- 
mensely. I  believe  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things  are  go- 
ing to  happen  to  us  there." 

He  was  very  pleased  with  himself,  and  very  pleased 
with  her,  and  very  pleased  with  everything.  The  wave 
of  his  life  was  rising  still  triumphantly. 

He  kept  her  Warsaw  letters  and  re-read  them  fre- 
quently. She  wrote  admirably.  Mrs.  Haughstone,  it 
seemed,  complained  about  everything,  from  the  cabin 
and  hotel  room  "which,  she  declares,  are  never  so  good  as 
my  own,"  to  her  position  as  an  invited  guest,  "which  she 
accepts  as  though  she  favored  me  by  coming,  thinking 
herself  both  chaperone  and  indispensable  companion. 
How  little  some  people  realize  that  no  one  is  ever  really 
indispensable."  And  the  first  letter  from  Egypt  told  him 
to  come  out  quickly  and  "help  me  keep  her  in  her  place, 
as  only  a  man  can  do.  Tony  wonders  why  you're  so 
long  about  it."  It  pleased  him  very  much,  and  as  the 
time  approached  for  leaving,  his  spirits  rose;  indeed,  he 
reached  Marseilles  much  in  the  mood  of  a  happy,  con- 
fident boy  who  has  passed  all  exams,  and  is  off  upon  a 
holiday  most  thoroughly  deserved. 

There  had  been  time  for  three  or  four  letters  from 
Luxor,  and  he  read  them  in  the  train  as  he  hurried  along 
from  Geneva  towards  the  south,  leaving  the  snowy  Jura 
hills  behind  him.  "Those  are  the  blue  mountains  we 
watched  from  Montreux  together  in  the  spring,"  he  said 
to  himself,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "Soon,  in  Egypt, 
we  shall  watch  the  Desert  and  the  Nile  instead."  And, 
remembering  that  dream-like,  happy  time  of  their  earliest 
acquaintance,  his  heart  beat  in  delighted  anticipation.  He 
could  think  of  nothing  else  but  her.  Those  Montreux 
days  seemed  years  ago  instead  of  a  brief  six  months. 
What  a  lot  he  had  to  tell  her,  how  much  they  would  have 


The  Wave  147 

to  talk  about.  Life,  indeed,  was  rich  and  full.  He  was 
a  lucky  man;  yet — he  deserved  it  all.  Belief  and  confi- 
dence in  himself  increased.  He  gazed  out  of  the  window, 
thinking  happily  as  the  scenery  rushed  by.  ...  Then  he 
came  back  to  the  letters  and  read  them  over  yet  once 
again ;  he  almost  knew  them  now  by  heart ;  he  opened 
his  bag  and  read  the  Warsaw  letters  too.  Then,  putting 
them  all  away,  he  lay  back  in  his  corner  and  tried  to  sleep. 
The  express  train  seemed  so  slow,  but  the  steamer  would 
seem  slower  still.  .  .  .  Thoughts  and  memories  passed 
idly  through  his  brain,  grew  mingled  and  confused;  his 
eyes  were  closed;  he  fell  into  a  doze:  he  almost  slept — 
when  something  rose  into  his  drowsy  mind  and  made  him 
suddenly  wakeful 

What  was  it?  He  didn't  know.  It  had  vanished  as 
soon  as  it  appeared.  But  the  drowsy  mood  had  passed, 
the  desire  to  sleep  was  gone.  There  was  impatience  in 
him,  the  keen  wish  to  be  in  Egypt — immediately.  He 
cursed  the  slow  means  of  travel,  longed  to  be  out  there, 
on  the  spot,  with  her  and  Tony.  Her  last  letters  had 
been  full  of  descriptions  of  the  place  and  people,  of  Tony 
and  his  numerous  friends,  his  kindness  in  introducing  her 
to  the  most  interesting  among  them,  their  picnics  to- 
gether on  the  Nile  and  in  the  Desert,  visits  to  the  famous 
sites  of  tomb  and  temple,  in  particular  of  an  all-night 
bivouac  somewhere  and  the  sunrise  over  the  Theban  hills. 
.  .  .  Tom,  as  he  read  it  all,  felt  this  keen  impatience  to 
be  sharing  it  with  them;  he  was  out  of  it;  oh,  how  he 
would  enjoy  it  all  when  he  got  there!  The  words  "The- 
ban hills"  called  up  a  vivid  and  stimulating  picture  in  par- 
ticular. 

But  it  was  not  this  that  chased  the  drowsy  mood  and 
made  him  wakeful.  It  was  the  letters  themselves,  some- 
thing he  had  not  noticed  hitherto,  something  that  had 
escaped  him  as  he  first  read  them  one  by  one.  Inde- 
finable, it  hid  between  the  lines.  Only  on  reading  the 


i48  The  Wave 

series  as  a  whole  was  it  noticeable  at  all.  He  wondered. 
He  asked  himself  vague  questions. 

Opening  his  bag  again,  he  went  through  the  letters  in 
the  order  of  their  arrival ;  then  put  them  back  inside  the 
elastic  ring  with  a  sensation  of  relief  and  a  happy  sigh. 
He  had  discovered  the  faint,  elusive  impression  that  had 
made  him  wakeful,  but  in  discovering  it  had  satisfied  him- 
self that  it  was  imagination — caused  by  the  increasing  im- 
patience of  his  impetuous  heart.  For  it  had  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  aware  of  a  change,  though  so  slight  as 
to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  and  certainly  not  traceable  to 
actual  words  or  sentences.  It  struck  him  that  the  War- 
saw letters  felt  the  separation  more  keenly,  more  poign- 
antly, than  the  Egyptian  letters.  This  seemed  due  rather 
to  omissions  in  the  latter  than  to  anything  else  that  he 
could  name,  for  while  the  Warsaw  letters  spoke  fre- 
quently of  the  separation,  of  her  longing  to  see  him  close, 
those  from  Luxor  omitted  all  such  phrases.  There  were 
pleas  in  plenty  for  his  health,  his  comfort,  his  welfare  and 
success — the  Mother  found  full  scope — but  no  direct  ex- 
pression of  her  need  for  him.  This,  briefly,  was  the 
notion  he  had  caught  faintly  from  "between  the  lines." 

But,  having  run  it  to  earth,  he  easily  explained  it  too. 
At  Warsaw  she  was  unhappy;  whereas  now,  in  Egypt, 
their  reunion  was  almost  within  sight:  she  felt  happier, 
too,  her  unpleasant  duties  over.  It  was  all  natural 
enough.  "What  a  sentimental  donkey  a  man  is  when  he's 
in  love!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  self-indulgent  smile  of 
pleased  forgiveness ;  "but  the  fact  is — when  she's  not  by 
me  to  explain — I  could  imagine  anything!"  And  he  fell 
at  length  into  the  doze  his  excited  fancy  had  postponed. 

After  leaving  Marseilles  his  impatience  grew  with  the 
slowness  of  the  steamer.  The  voyage  of  four  days 
seemed  interminable.  The  sea  and  sky  took  on  a  deeper 
blue,  the  air  turned  softer,  the  sweetness  of  the  south  be- 
came more  marked.  His  exhilaration  increased  with 
every  hour,  the  desire  to  reach  his  destination  increasing 


The  Wave  149 

with  it.  There  was  an  intensity  about  his  feelings  he 
could  not  entirely  account  for.  The  longing  to  see  Egypt 
merged  with  the  longing  to  see  Lettice.  But  the  two  were 
separate.  The  latter  was  impatient  happiness,  while  the 
former  struck  a  slower  note — respect  and  wonder  that 
contained  a  .hint  of  awe. 

Somewhere  in  this  anticipatory  excitement,  too,  hid 
drama.  And  his  first  glimpse  of  the  marvelous  old  land 
did  prove  dramatic  in  a  sense.  For  when  a  passen- 
ger drew  his  attention  to  the  white  Alexandrian  harbor 
floating  on  the  shining  blue,  he  caught  his  breath  a  mo- 
ment and  his  heart  gave  a  sudden  unexpected  leap.  He 
saw  the  low-lying  coast,  a  palm,  a  mosque,  a  minaret ;  he 
saw  the  sandy  lip  of — Africa. 

That  shimmering  line  of  blue  and  gold  was  Egypt.  .  .  . 
He  had  known  it  would  look  exactly  thus,  exactly  as  he 
saw  it.  The  same  instant  his  heart  contracted  a  little. 
.  .  .  He  leaned  motionless  upon  the  rail  and  watched 
the  coast-line  coming  nearer,  ever  nearer.  It  rose  out  of 
the  burning  haze  of  blue  and  gold  that  hung  motionless 
between  the  water  and  the  air.  Bathed  in  the  drenching 
sunlight,  the  fringe  of  the  great  thirsty  Desert  seemed 
to  drink  the  sea.  .  .  . 

His  entry  was  accompanied  by  mingled  emotions  and 
sensations.  That  Lettice  stood  waiting  for  him  some- 
where behind  the  blaze  of  light  contributed  much ;  yet  the 
thrill  owned  a  more  complex  origin,  it  seemed.  To  any 
one  not  entirely  callous  to  the  stab  of  strange  romance 
and  stranger  beauty,  the  first  sight  of  Egypt  must  always 
be  an  event,  and  Tom,  by  no  means  thus  insensitive,  felt 
it  vividly.  He  was  aware  of  something  not  wholly  unfa- 
miliar. The  invitation  was  so  strong,  it  seemed  to  entice 
as  with  an  attraction  that  was  almost  summons.  As  the 
ship  drew  nearer,  and  thoughts  of  landing  filled  his  mind, 
he  felt  no  opposition,  no  resistance,  no  difficulty,  as  with 
other  countries.  There  was  no  hint  of  friction  anywhere. 


150  The  Wave 

He  seemed  instantly  at  home.    Egypt  not  merely  enticed 
— she  pulled  him  in. 

.  "Here  I  am  at  last !"  whispered  a  voice,  as  he  watched 
the  noisy  throng  of  Arabs,  Nubians,  Soudanese  upon  the 
crowded  wharf.  He  delighted  in  the  color,  the  gleaming 
eyes,  bronze  skins,  the  white  caftans  with  their  red  and 
yellow  sashes.  The  phantasmal  amber  light  that  filled 
the  huge,  still  heavens  lit  something  similar  in  his  mind 
and  thoughts.  Only  the  train,  with  its  luxurious  res- 
taurant car,  its  shutters  to  keep  out  the  dust  and  heat, 
appeared  incongruous.  He  lost  the  power  to  think  this  or 
that.  He  could  only  feel,  and  feel  intensely.  His  feet 
touched  Egypt,  and  a  deep  glow  of  inner  happiness  pos- 
sessed him.  He  was  not  disappointed  anywhere,  though 
as  yet  he  had  seen  nothing  but  a  steamer  quay.  Then 
he  sent  a  telegram  to  Lettice:  "Arrived  safely.  Reach 
Luxor  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning";  and,  having 
slid  through  the  Delta  country  with  the  flaming  sunset, 
he  had  his  first  glimpse  of  the  lordly  Pyramids  as  the 
train  drew  into  Cairo.  Dim  and  immense  he  saw  them 
across  the  swift-falling  dusk,  shadowy  as  forgotten  cen- 
turies that  cannot  die.  Though  too  distant  to  feel  their 
menace,  he  yet  knew  them  towering  over  him,  mysterious, 
colossal,  unintelligible,  the  sentinels  of  a  gateway  he  had 
passed. 

Such  was  the  first  touch  of  Egypt  on  his  soul.  It  was 
as  big  and  magical  as  he  had  known  it  would  be.  The 
magnificence  and  the  glamour  both  were  there.  Europe 
already  lay  forgotten  far  behind  him,  non-existent.  Some 
one  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  whispered  a  password, 
he  was — in. 

He  dined  in  Cairo  and  took  the  night-train  on  to  Luxor, 
the  white,  luxurious  wagon  lit  again  striking  an  incon- 
gruous note.  For  he  had  stepped  from  a  platform  into 
space,  a  space  that  floated  suns  and  constellations.  About 
him  was  that  sense  of  the  illimitable  which  broods  every- 
where in  Egypt,  in  sand  and  sky,  in  sun  and  stars ;  it  ab- 


The  Wave  151 

sorbed  him  easily,  small  human  speck  in  a  toy  train  with 
electric  lights  and  modern  comforts !  An  emotion  difficult 
to  seize  gripped  his  heart,  as  he  slid  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  land  towards  Lettice.  .  .  .  For  Lettice  also  was  in- 
volved in  this.  With  happiness,  yet  somehow,  too,  with 
tears,  he  thought  of  her  waiting  for  him  now,  expecting 
him,  perhaps  reading  his  telegram  for  the  twentieth  time. 
Through  a  mist  of  blue  and  gold  she  seemed  to  beckon 
to  him  across  the  shimmer  of  the  endless  yellow  sands. 
He  saw  the  little  finger  he  had  kissed.  The  dear  face 
smiled.  But  there  was  a  change  upon  it  somewhere, 
though  a  change  too  subtle  to  be  precisely  named.  The 
eyelids  were  half  closed,  and  in  the  smile  was  power; 
the  beckoning  finger  conveyed  a  gesture  that  was  new — 
command.  It  seemed  to  point;  it  had  a  motion  down- 
wards ;  about  her  aspect  was  some  flavor  of  authority  al- 
most royal,  borrowed,  doubtless,  from  the  regal  gold  and 
purple  of  the  sky's  magnificence. 

Oddly,  again,  his  heart  contracted  as  this  changed  as- 
pect of  her,  due  to  heightened  imagination,  rose  before 
the  inner  eye.  A  sensation  of  uncertainty  and  question 
slipped  in  with  it,  though  whence  he  knew  not.  A  hint 
of  insecurity  assailed  his  soul — almost  a  sense  of  in- 
feriority in  himself.  It  even  flashed  across  him  that  he 
was  under  orders.  It  was  inexplicable.  ...  A  restless- 
ness in  his  blood  prevented  sleep.  .  .  .  He  drew  the  blind 
up  and  looked  out. 

There  was  no  moon.  The  night  was  drowned  in  stars. 
The  train  rushed  south  towards  Thebes  along  the  green 
thread  of  the  Nile ;  the  Lybian  desert  keeping  pace  with 
it,  immense  and  desolate,  death  gnawing  eternally  at  the 
narrow  strip  of  life.  .  .  .  And  again  he  knew  the  feeling 
that  he  had  stepped  from  a  platform  into  space.  Egypt 
lay  spread  below  him.  He  fell  towards  it,  plunging,  and 
as  he  fell,  looked  down — upon  something  vaguely  familiar 
and  half  known.  .  .  .  An  underlying  sadness,  inexplica- 
ble but  significant,  crept  in  upon  his  thoughts. 


152  The  Wave 

They  rushed  past  Bedrashein,  a  straggling  Arab  village 
where  once  great  Memphis  owned  eighteen  miles  of 
frontage  on  the  stately  river;  he  saw  the  low  mud  huts, 
the  groves  of  date-palms  that  now  marked  the  vanished 
splendor.  They  slid  by  in  their  hundreds,  the  spectral 
desert  gleaming  like  snow  between  the  openings.  The 
huge  pyramids  of  Sakkhara  loomed  against  the  faint 
western  afterglow.  He  saw  the  shaft  of  strange  green 
light  they  call  zodiacal. 

And  the  sadness  in  him  deepened  inexplicably — that 
strange  Egyptian  sadness  which  ever  underlies  the  bril- 
liance. .  .  .  The  watchful  stars  looked  down  with  sixty 
hundred  centuries  between  them  and  a  forgotten  glory 
that  dreamed  now  among  a  thousand  sandy  tombs.  For 
the  silent  landscape  flying  past  him  like  a  dream  woke 
emotions  both  sweet  and  painful  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand— sweet  to  poignancy,  exquisitely  painful. 

Perhaps  it  was  natural  enough,  natural,  too,  that  he 
should  transfer  these  in  some  dim  measure  to  the  woman 
now  waiting  for  him  among  the  ruins  of  many-gated 
Thebes.  The  ancient  city,  dreaming  still  beside  the  sto- 
ried river,  assumed  an  appearance  half  fabulous  in  his 
thoughts.  Egypt  had  wakened  imagination  in  his  soul. 
The  change  he  fancied  in  Lettice  was  due,  doubtless,  to 
the  transforming  magic  that  mingled  an  actual  present 
with  a  haunted  past.  Possibly  this  was  some  portion  of 
the  truth.  .  .  .  And  yet,  while  the  mood  possessed  him, 
some  joy,  some  inner  sheath,  as  it  were,  of  anticipated 
happiness  slipped  off  him  into  the  encroaching  yellow 
sand — as  though  he  surrendered,  not  so  much  the  actual 
happiness,  as  his  right  to  it.  A  second's  helplessness 
crept  over  him ;  another  Self  that  was  inferior  peeped  up 
and  sighed  and  whispered.  .  .  .  He  was  aware  of  hidden 
touches  that  stabbed  him  into  uneasiness,  disquiet,  almost 
pain.  .  .  .  Some  outer  tissue  was  stripped  from  his  nor- 
mal being,  leaving  him  naked  to  the  tang  of  extremely 


The  Wave  153 

delicate  shafts,  buried  so  long  that  interpretation  failed 
him. 

The  curious  sensation,  luckily,  did  not  last;  but  this 
hint  of  a  familiarity  that  seemed  both  sweet  and  danger- 
ous, made  it  astonishingly  convincing  at  the  time.  Some 
aspect  of  vanity,  of  confidence  in  himself  distinctly  weak- 
ened. .  .  . 

It  passed  with  the  spectral  palm  trees  as  the  train  sped 
further  south.  He  finally  dismissed  it  as  the  result  of 
fatigue,  excitement  and  anticipation  too  prolonged.  .  .  . 
Yes,  he  dismissed  it.  At  any  rate  it  passed.  It  sank  out 
of  sight  and  was  forgotten.  It  had  become,  perhaps,  an 
integral  portion  of  his  being.  Possibly,  it  had  always 
been  so,  and  had  been  merely  waiting  to  emerge.  .  .  . 

But  such  intangible  and  elusive  emotions  were  so  new 
to  him  that  he  could  not  pretend  to  deal  with  them. 
There  is  a  stimulus  as  of  ether  about  the  Egyptian  cli- 
mate that  gets  into  the  mind,  it  is  said,  and  stirs  unwonted 
dreams  and  fantasies.  The  climate  becomes  mental.  His 
stolid  temperament  was,  perhaps,  pricked  thus  half  unin- 
telligibly. He  could  not  understand  it.  He  drew  the 
blind  down.  But  before  turning  out  the  light,  he  read 
over  once  again  the  note  of  welcome  Lettice  had  sent  to 
meet  him  at  the  steamer.  It  was  brief,  but  infinitely 
precious.  The  thought  of  her  love  sponged  all  lesser  feel- 
ings completely  from  his  mind,  and  he  fell  asleep  thinking 
only  of  their  approaching  meeting,  and  of  his  marvelous 
deep  joy. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

ON  reaching  Luxor  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to 
his  keen  delight  an  Arab  servant  met  him  with  an 
unexpected  invitation.  He  had  meant  to  go  first  to  his 
hotel,  but  Lettice  willed  otherwise,  everything  thought 
out  beforehand  in  her  loving  way.  He  drove  accordingly 
to  her  house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  towards  Karnak, 
changed  and  bathed  in  a  room  where  he  recognized  with 
supreme  joy  a  hundred  familiar  touches  that  seemed 
transplanted  from  the  Brown  Flat  at  home — and  found 
her  at  nine  o'clock  waiting  for  him  on  the  verandah. 
Breakfast  was  laid  in  the  shady  garden  just  beyond. 

It  was  ideal  as  a  dream.  She  stood  there  dressed  in 
white,  wearing  a  big  sun-hat  with  little  roses,  sparkling, 
radiant,  a  graceful  fairy  figure  from  the  heart  of  spring. 
"Here's  the  inevitable  fly-whisk,  Tom,"  was  the  first 
thing  she  said,  and  as  naturally  as  though  they  had  parted 
a  few  hours  before,  "it's  to  keep  the  flies  away,  and  to 
keep  you  at  your  distance  too!"  And  his  first  remark, 
escaping  him  impulsively  in  place  of  a  hundred  other 
things  he  had  meant  to  say,  was,  "You  look  different; 
you've  changed.  Lettice,  you're  far  more  lovely  than  I 
knew.  I've  never  seen  you  look  like  that  before!"  He 
felt  his  entire  being  go  out  to  her  in  a  consuming  flame. 
"You  look  perfectly  divine."  Sheer  admiration  took  his 
breath  away.  "I  believe  you're  Isis  herself,"  he  laughed 
in  his  delight,  "come  back  into  her  own !" 

"Then  you  must  be  Osiris,  Tom!"  her  happy  voice 
responded,  "new  risen  from  his  sandy  tomb!" 

There  was  no  time  for  private  conversation,  for  Mrs. 
Haughstone  appeared  just  then  and  inquired  politely 
after  his  health  and  journey.  "The  flies  are  awful,"  she 

154 


The  Wave  155 

mentioned,  "but  Lettice  always  insists  on  having  break- 
fast out  of  doors.  I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  stand  it."  And 
she  continued  to  flutter  her  horse-hair  whisk  as  though 
she  would  have  liked  to  sweep  Egypt  itself  from  the  face 
of  the  map.  "No  wonder  the  Israelites  were  glad  to 
leave.  There's  sand  in  everything  you  eat  and  flies  on 
everything  you  see."  Yet  she  said  it  with  what  passed  in 
her  case  for  good  nature;  she,  too,  was  evidently  enjoy- 
ing herself  in  Egypt. 

Tom  said  that  flies  and  sand  would  not  trouble  him 
with  such  gorgeous  sunlight  to  compensate,  and  that  any- 
how they  were  better  than  soot  and  fogs  in  London. 

"You'll  be  tired  of  the  sun  before  a  week  is  over,"  she 
replied,  "and  long  to  see  a  cloud  or  feel  a  drop  of  rain." 
She  followed  his  eyes  which  seemed  unable  to  leave  the 
face  and  figure  of  his  hostess.  "But  it  all  agrees  wonder- 
fully with  my  cousin.  Don't  you  find  her  looking  well? 
She's  quite  changed  into  another  person,  /  think,"  the 
tone  suggesting  that  it  was  not  altogether  a  change  that 
she  herself  approved  of.  "We're  all  different  here,  a 
little.  Even  Mr.  Winslowe's  improved  enormously.  He's 
steadier  and  wiser  than  he  used  to  be."  And  Tom,  laugh- 
ing, said  he  hoped  he  would  improve,  too,  himself. 

The  comforting  hot  coffee,  the  delicious  rolls,  the  cool 
iced  fruit,  and,  above  all,  Lettice  beside  him  at  last  in 
the  pleasant  shade,  gave  Tom  such  high  spirits  that  the 
woman's  disagreeable  personality  produced  no  effect. 
Through  the  gate  in  the  stone  wall  at  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den, beneath  masses  of  drooping  bougainvillaea,  the  Nile 
dreamed  past  in  a  sheet  of  golden  haze ;  the  Theban  hills, 
dipped  in  the  crystal  azure  of  the  sky,  rose  stern  and 
desolate  upon  the  horizon ;  the  air,  at  this  early  hour,  was 
fresh  and  keen.  He  felt  himself  in  some  enchanted  gar- 
den of  the  ancient  world  with  a  radiant  goddess  for  com- 
panion. .  .  .  There  was  a  sound  of  singing  from  the 
river  below — the  song  of  the  Nile  boatman  that  has  not 
changed  these  thousand  years ;  a  quaint  piping  melody 


156  The  Wave 

floated  in  from  the  street  outside ;  from  the  further  shore 
came  the  dull  beating  of  a  native  tom-tom;  and  the  still, 
burning  atmosphere  held  the  mystery  of  wonder  in  sus- 
pension. Her  beauty,  at  last,  had  found  its  perfect 
setting. 

"I  never  saw  your  eyes  so  wonderful — so  soft  and 
brilliant,"  he  whispered  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 
"You're  very  happy."  He  paused,  looking  at  her. 
"That's  me,  isn't  it  ?  Lettice,  say  it  is  at  once."  He  was 
very  playful  in  his  joy ;  but  he  longed  eagerly  to  hear  her 
admit  that  his  coming  meant  as  much  to  her  as  it  meant 
to  him. 

"I  suppose  it  must  be,"  she  replied,  "but  it's  the  climate 
too.  This  keen  dry  air  and  the  sunshine  bring  all  one's 
power  out.  There's  something  magical  in  it.  You  forget 
the  years  and  feel  young — against  the  background  of  this 
old  land  a  life-time  seems  like  an  afternoon,  merely.  And 
the  nights — oh,  Tom,  the  stars  are  too,  too  marvelous." 
She  spoke  with  a  kind  of  exuberance  that  seemed  new  in 
her. 

"They  must  be,"  he  rejoined,  as  he  gazed  exultantly, 
"for  they're  all  in  you,  sun,  air,  and  stars.  You're  a  per- 
fect revelation  to  me  of  what  a  woman " 

"Am  I  ?"  she  interrupted,  fluttering  her  whisk  between 
her  chair  and  his.  "But  now,  dear  Tom,  my  headstrong 
boy,  tell  me  how  you  are  and  all  about  yourself,  your 
plans,  and  everything  else  in  the  world  besides."  He 
told  her  what  he  could,  answered  all  her  questions,  de- 
clared he  and  she  were  going  to  have  the  time  of  their 
lives,  and  behaved  generally,  as  she  told  him,  like  a  boy 
out  of  school.  He  admitted  it.  "But  I'm  hungry,  Let- 
tice, awfully  hungry."  He  kept  reminding  her  that  he 
had  been  starving  for  two  long  months;  surely  she  was 
starving  too.  He  longed  to  hear  her  confess  it  with  a 
sigh  of  happy  relief.  "My  arms  and  lips  are  hungry," 
he  went  on  incorrigibly,  "but  I'm  tired,  too,  from  travel- 
ing. I  feel  like  putting  my  head  on  your  breast  and  going 


The  Wave  157 

sound  asleep."  "My  boy,"  she  said  tenderly,  "you  shall." 
She  responded  instantly  to  that.  "You  always  were  a 
baby  and  I'm  here  to  take  care  of  you."  He  seized  her 
hand  and  kissed  it  before  she  could  draw  it  away.  "You 
must  be  careful,  Tom.  Everything  has  eyes  in  Egypt; 
the  Arabs  move  like  ghosts."  She  glanced  towards  the 
windows.  "And  the  gossip  is  unbelievable."  She  was 
quiet  again  now,  and  very  gentle ;  it  struck  him  how  calm 
and  sweet  she  was  towards  him,  yet  that  there  was  a  de- 
lightful happy  excitement  underneath  that  she  only  just 
controlled.  He  was  aware  of  something  wild  in  her  just 
out  of  sight — a  kind  of  mental  effervescence,  almost  in- 
toxication she  deliberately  suppressed. 

"And  so  are  you — unbelievable,"  he  exclaimed  impetu- 
ously ;  "unbelievably  beautiful.  This  is  your  country  with 
a  vengeance,  Lettice.  You're  like  an  Egyptian  queen — 
a  princess  of  the  sun !" 

He  gazed  critically  at  her  till  she  lowered  her  eyes. 
He  realized  that,  actually,  they  were  not  visible  from  the 
house  and  that  the  garden  trees  were  thick  about  them; 
but  he  also  received  a  faint  impression  that  she  did  not 
want,  did  not  intend,  to  allow  quite  the  same  intimacy  as 
before.  It  just  flashed  across  him  with  a  hint  of  disap- 
pointment, then  was  gone.  His  boyish  admiration,  per- 
haps, annoyed  her.  He  had  felt  for  a  second  that  her 
excuse  of  the  windows  and  the  gossip  was  not  the  entire 
truth.  The  merest  shadow  of  a  thought  it  was.  He  no- 
ticed her  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  him.  The  same  minute, 
then,  she  rose  quietly  and  rustled  over  to  his  chair,  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek  quickly,  and  sat  down  again.  "There!" 
she  said  playfully  as  though  she  had  guessed  his  thoughts, 
"I've  done  the  awful  thing;  now  you'll  be  reasonable,  per- 
haps!" And  whether  or  not  she  had  divined  his  mood, 
she  instantly  dispelled  it — for  the  moment.  .  .  . 

They  talked  about  a  hundred  things,  moving  their 
chairs  as  the  blazing  sunshine  found  them  out,  till  finally 
they  sat  with  cushions  on  the  steps  of  stone  that  led  down 


158  The  Wave 

to  the  river  beneath  the  flaming  bougainvillaea.  He  felt 
the  strange  touch  of  Egypt  all  about  them,  that  touch  of 
eternity  that  floats  in  the  very  air,  a  hint  of  something 
deathless  and  sublime  that  whispers  in  the  sunshine.  Al- 
ready he  was  aware  of  the  long  fading  stretch  of  years 
behind.  He  thought  of  Egypt  as  two  vast  hands  that  held 
him,  one  of  tawny  gold  and  one  of  turquoise  blue — the 
desert  and  the  sky.  In  the  hollow  of  those  great  hands, 
he  lay  with  Lettice — two  tiny  atoms  of  sand.  .  .  . 

He  watched  her  every  movement,  every  gesture,  noted 
the  slightest  inflection  of  her  voice,  was  aware  that  five 
years  at  least  had  dropped  from  her,  that  her  complexion 
had  grown  softer,  a  shade  darker,  too,  from  the  sun ;  but, 
above  all,  that  there  was  a  new  expression,  a  new  light 
certainly,  soft  and  brilliant,  in  her  eyes.  It  seemed,  briefly 
put,  that  she  had  blossomed  somehow  into  a  fuller  expres- 
sion of  herself.  An  overflowing  vitality,  masked  behind 
her  calmness,  betrayed  itself  in  every  word  and  glance 
and  gesture.  There  was  an  exuberance  he  called  joy,  but 
it  was,  somehow,  a  new,  an  unexpected  joy. 

She  was,  of  course,  aware  of  his  untiring  scrutiny; 
and  presently,  in  a  lull,  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  river  be- 
low them,  she  spoke  of  it.  "You  find  me  a  little  changed, 
Tom,  don't  you  ?  I  warned  you  that  Egypt  had  a  certain 
effect  on  me.  It  inflames  the  heart  and " 

"But  a  very  wonderful  effect,"  he  broke  in  with  ad- 
miration. "You're  different  in  a  way — yes — but  you 
haven't  changed — not  towards  me,  I  mean."  He  wanted 
to  say  a  great  deal  more,  but  could  not  find  the  words ;  he 
divined  that  something  had  happened  to  her,  in  Warsaw 
probably,  and  he  longed  to  question  her  about  the  "other" 
who  was  her  husband,  but  he  could  not,  of  course,  allow 
himself  to  do  so.  An  intuitive  feeling  came  to  him  that 
the  claim  upon  her  of  this  other  was  more  remote  than 
formerly.  His  dread  had  certainly  lessened.  The  claims 
upon  her  of  this  "other"  seemed  no  longer — danger- 


The  Wave  159 

cms.  .  .  .  He  wondered.  .  .  .  There  was  a  certain  con- 
fusion in  his  mind. 

"You  got  my  letter  at  Alexandria?"  she  interrupted 
his  reflections.  He  thanked  her  with  enthusiasm,  trying 
to  remember  what  it  said — but  without  success.  It  struck 
him  suddenly  that  there  was  very  little  in  it  after  all,  and 
he  mentioned  this  with  a  reproachful  smile.  "That's  my 
restraint,"  she  replied.  "You  always  liked  restraint.  Be- 
sides, I  wasn't  sure  it  would  reach  you."  She  laughed 
and  blew  a  kiss  towards  him.  She  made  a  curious  gesture 
he  had  never  seen  her  make  before.  It  seemed  unlike 
her.  More  and  more,  he  registered  a  difference  in  her, 
as  if  side  by  side  with  the  increase  of  spontaneous  vitality, 
there  ran  another  mood,  another  aspect,  almost  another 
point  of  view.  It  was  not  towards  him,  yet  it  affected 
him.  There  seemed  a  certain  new  lightness,  even  irre- 
sponsibility in  her;  she  was  more  worldly,  more  human, 
not  more  ordinary  by  any  means,  but  less  "impersonal." 
He  remembered  her  singular  words :  "It  inflames  the 
heart."  He  wondered — a  little  uneasily.  There  seemed 
a  new  touch  of  wonder  about  her  that  made  him  aware 
of  something  commonplace,  almost  inferior,  in  him- 
self. .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  he  felt  another  thing — a  breath  of 
coldness  touched  him  somewhere,  though  he  could  not 
trace  its  origin  to  anything  she  did  or  said.  Was  it  per- 
haps in  what  she  left  unsaid,  undone  ?  He  longed  to  hear 
her  confess  how  she  had  missed  him,  how  thrilled  she 
was  that  he  had  come:  but  she  did  not  say  these  pas- 
sionately desired  things,  and  when  he  teased  her  about  it, 
she  showed  a  slight  impatience  almost :  "Tom,  you  know 
I  never  talk  like  that.  Anything  sentimental  I  abhor. 
But  I  live  it.  Can't  you  see?"  His  ungenerous  fancies 
vanished  then  at  once ;  at  a  word,  a  smile,  a  glance  of  the 
expressive  eyes,  he  instantly  forgot  all  else. 

"But  I  am  different  in  Egypt,"  she  warned  him  play- 


160  The  Wave 

fully  again,  half  closing  her  eyelids  as  she  said  it.  "I 
wonder  if  you'll  like  me — quite  as  well." 

"More,"  he  replied  ardently,  "a  thousand  times  more. 
I  feel  it  already.  There's  mischief  in  you,"  he  went  on 
watching  the  half -closed  eyes,  "a  touch  of  magic  too,  but 
very  human  magic.  I  love  it."  And  then  he  whispered, 
"I  think  you're  more  within  my  reach." 

"Arn  I  ?"  She  looked  bewitching,  a  being  of  light  and 
air. 

"Everybody  will  fall  in  love  with  you  at  sight."  He 
laughed  happily,  aware  of  an  enchantment  that  fascinated 
him  more  and  more,  but  when  he  suddenly  went  over 
to  her  chair,  she  stopped  him  with  decision.  "Don't,  Tom, 
please  don't.  Tony '11  be  here  any  minute  now.  It  would 
be  unpleasant  if  he  saw  you  behaving  wildly  like  this! 
He  wouldn't  understand." 

He  drew  back.  "Oh,  Tony's  coming — then  I  must  be 
careful!"  He  laughed,  but  he  was  disappointed  and  he 
showed  it :  it  was  their  first  day  together,  and  eager 
though  he  was  to  see  his  cousin,  he  felt  it  might  well 
have  been  postponed  a  little.  He  said  so. 

"One  must  be  natural,  Tom,"  she  told  him  in  reply; 
"it's  always  the  best  way.  This  isn't  London  or  Mon- 
treux,  you  see,  and " 

"Lettice,  I  understand,"  he  interrupted,  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  himself.  "You're  quite  right."  He  tried  to  look 
pleased  and  satisfied,  but  the  truth  was  he  felt  suddenly — 
stupid.  "And  we've  got  lots  of  time — three  months  or 
more  ahead  of  us,  haven't  we?"  She  gave  him  an  ex- 
pressive, tender  look  with  which  he  had  to  be  contented 
for  the  moment. 

"And  by  the  by,  how  is  old  Tony,  and  who  is  his 
latest?"  he  inquired  carelessly. 

"Very  excited  at  your  coming,  Tom.  You'll  think  him 
improved,  I  hope.  I  believe  I'm  his  latest,"  she  added, 
tilting  her  chin  with  a  delicious  pretense  at  mischief. 
And  the  gesture  again  surprised  him.  It  was  new.  He 


The  Wave  161 

thought  it  foreign  to  her.  There  seemed  a  flavor  of  im- 
patience, of  audacity,  almost  of  challenge  in  it. 

"Finding  himself  at  last.  That's  good.  Then  you've 
been  fishing  to  some  purpose." 

"Fishing?" 

"Rescuing  floating  faces." 

She  pouted  at  him.  "I'm  not  a  saint,  Tom.  You  know 
I  never  was.  Saints  are  very  inspiring  to  read  about,  but 
you  couldn't  live  with  one — or  love  one.  Could  you, 
now?" 

He  gave  an  inward  start  she  did  not  notice.  The  same 
instant  he  was  aware  that  it  was  her  happy  excitement 
that  made  her  talk  in  this  exaggerated  way.  That  was 
why  it  sounded  so  unnatural.  He  forgot  it  instantly. 

They  laughed  and  chatted  as  happily  as  two  children — 
Tom  felt  a  boy  again — until  Mrs.  Haughstone  appeared, 
marching  down  the  river-bank  with  an  enormous  white 
umbrella  over  her  head,  and  the  talk  became  general. 
Tom  said  he  would  go  to  his  hotel  and  return  for  lunch ; 
he  wanted  to  telephone  to  Assouan.  He  asked  where 
Tony  was  staying.  "But  he  knew  I  was  at  the  Winter 
Palace,"  he  exclaimed  when  she  mentioned  the  Savoy. 
"He  found  some  people  there  he  wanted  to  avoid,"  she 
explained,  "so  moved  down  to  the  Savoy." 

Tom  said  he  would  do  the  same;  it  was  much  nearer 
to  her  house,  for  one  thing :  "You'll  keep  him  for  lunch, 
won't  you?"  he  said  as  he  went  off.  "I'll  try,"  she  prom- 
ised, "but  he's  so  busy  with  his  numerous  friends  as  usual 
that  I  can't  be  sure  of  him.  He  has  more  engagements 
here  than  in  London," — whereupon  Mrs.  Haughstone 
added,  "Oh,  he'll  stay,  Mr.  Kelverdon.  I'm  sure  he'll 
stay.  We  lunch  at  one  o'clock,  remember." 

And  in  his  room  at  the  hotel  Tom  found  a  dozen  signs 
of  tenderness  and  care  that  increased  his  happiness; 
there  were  touches  everywhere  of  her  loving  thought  for 
his  comfort  and  well-being — flowers,  his  favorite  soap, 
some  cigarettes,  one  of  her  own  deck-chairs,  books,  and 


162  The  Wave 

even  a  big  box  of  crystallized  dates  as  though  he  was  a 
baby  or  a  little  boy.  It  all  touched  him  deeply ;  no  other 
woman  in  the  world  could  possibly  have  thought  out  such 
dear  reminders,  much  less  have  carried  them  into  effect. 
There  was  even  a  writing-pad  and  a  penholder  with  the 
special  nib  he  liked.  He  laughed.  But  her  care  for  him 
in  such  trivial  things  was  exquisite  because  it  showed  she 
claimed  the  right  to  do  them. 

His  heart  brimmed  over  as  he  saw  them.  It  was  im- 
possible to  give  up  any  room,  even  a  hotel  room,  into 
which  she  had  put  her  sweet  and  mothering  personality. 
He  could  do  without  Tony's  presence  and  companion- 
ship, rather  than  resign  a  room  she  had  thus  prepared  for 
him.  He  engaged  it  permanently  therefore.  Then,  tele- 
phoning to  Assouan,  he  decided  to  take  the  night  train 
and  see  what  had  to  be  done  there.  It  all  sounded  most 
satisfactory ;  he  foresaw  much  free  time  ahead  of  him ; 
occasional  trips  to  the  work  would  meet  the  case  at 
present.  .  .  . 

Happier  than  ever,  he  returned  to  a  lunch  in  the  open 
air  with  her  and  Tony,  and  it  was  the  gayest,  merriest 
meal  he  had  ever  known.  Mrs.  Haughstone  retired  to 
sleep  through  the  hotter  hours  of  the  afternoon,  leaving 
the  trio  to  amuse  themselves  in  freedom.  And  though 
they  never  left  the  shady  garden  by  the  Nile,  they  amused 
themselves  so  well  that  tea  was  over  and  it  was  time  for 
Tom  to  get  ready  for  his  train  before  he  realized  it. 
Tony  and  Madame  Jaretzka  drove  him  to  his  hotel,  and 
afterwards  to  the  station,  sitting  in  the  compartment  with 
him  until  the  train  was  actually  moving.  He  watched  them 
standing  on  the  platform  together,  waving  their  hands. 
He  waved  his  own.  "I'll  be  back  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day,"  he  cried.  Emotions  and  sensations  were  somewhat 
tangled  in  him,  but  happiness  certainly  was  uppermost. 

"Don't  forget,"  he  heard  Tony  shout.  .  .  .  And  her 
eyes  were  on  his  own  until  the  trees  on  the  platform  hid 
her  from  his  sight  behind  their  long  deep  shadows. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE  first  excitement  of  arrival  over,  he  drew  breath 
as  it  were  and  looked  about  him.  Egypt  delighted 
and  amazed  him,  surpassing  his  expectations.  Its  effect 
upon  him  was  instantaneous  and  profound.  The  decisive 
note  sounded  at  Alexandria  continued  in  his  ears.  Egypt 
drew  him  in  with  golden,  powerful  arms.  In  every  detail 
it  was  strange,  yet  with  the  strangeness  of  a  pre-deter- 
mined  welcome.  It  was  not  strange  to  him.  The  thrill 
of  welcome  made  him  feel  at  home.  He  had  come 
back.  .  .  . 

Here,  at  Assouan,  he  was  aware  of  Africa,  mystic, 
half-monstrous  continent,  lying  with  its  heat  and  wonder 
just  beyond  the  horizon.  He  saw  the  Southern  Cross, 
pitched  low  above  the  sandy  rim.  .  .  .  Yet  Africa  had 
no  call  for  him.  It  left  him  without  a  thrill,  an  uninvit- 
ing, undesirable  land.  It  was  Egypt  that  made  the  inti- 
mate and  personal  appeal,  as  of  a  deeply  loved  and  half- 
familiar  place.  It  seemed  to  gather  him  in  against  its 
mighty  heart.  He  lay  in  some  niche  of  comforting  warm 
sand  against  the  ancient  mass  that  claimed  him,  tucked  in 
by  the  wonder  and  the  mystery,  protected,  even  mothered. 
It  was  an  oddly  stimulated  imagination  that  supplied  the 
picture — and  made  him  smile.  He  snuggled  down  deeper 
and  deeper  into  this  figurative  warm  bed  of  sand  the  ages 
had  preordained.  He  felt  secure  and  sheltered — as 
though  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  veiled  something  that 
menaced  joy  in  him,  something  that  concealed  a  notion  of 
attack.  Almost  there  seemed  a  whisper  in  the  wind,  a 
watchful  and  unclosing  eye  behind  the  dazzling  sunshine : 
"Surrender  yourself  to  me,  and  I  will  care  for  you.  I 
will  protect  you  against  .  .  .  yourself.  .  .  .  Beware!" 

This  peculiar  excitement  in  his  blood  was  somehow 

163 


1 64  The  Wave 

precisely  what  he  had  expected ;  the  wonder  and  the  thrill 
were  natural  and  right.  He  had  known  that  Egypt  would 
mesmerize  his  soul  exactly  in  this  way.  He  had,  it 
seemed,  anticipated  both  the  exhilaration  and  the  terror. 
He  thought  much  about  it  all,  and  each  time  Egypt  looked 
him  in  the  face,  he  saw  Lettice  too.  They  were  insep- 
arably connected.,  as  it  were.  He  saw  her  brilliant  eyes 
peering  past  the  great  tawny  visage.  Together  they  bade 
him  pause  and  listen.  .  .  .  The  wind  brought  up  its  faint, 
elusive  whisper:  "Wait.  .  .  .  We  have  not  done  with 
you.  .  .  .  Wait  and  listen!  Watch  .  .  .!" 

Before  his  mind's  eye  the  mighty  land  lay  like  a  map, 
a  blazing  garden  of  intenser  life  that  the  desolation  ill 
concealed.  Europe  seemed  infinitely  remote,  the  life  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  unreal,  of  tepid  interest,  while 
the  intimate  appeal  that  Egypt  made  grew  more  insistent 
every  hour  of  the  day.  It  was  Luxor,  however,  that 
called  him  peremptorily — Luxor  where  all  that  was  dear- 
est to  him  in  life  now  awaited  his  return.  He  yearned 
for  Luxor;  Thebes  drew  him  like  a  living  magnet.  Let- 
tice was  in  Thebes,  and  Thebes  also  seemed  the  heart  of 
ancient  Egypt,  its  center  and  its  climax.  "Come  back  to 
us,"  whispered  the  sweet  desert  wind;  "we  are  waiting. 
.  .  ."  In  Thebes  seemed  the  focus  of  the  strange  Egyp- 
tian spell. 

At  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  here  in  Assouan,  it 
caught  him,  asking  forever  the  great  unanswerable  ques- 
tions. In  the  pauses  of  his  strenuous  work,  in  the  watches 
of  the  night,  when  he  heard  the  little  owls  and  the  weird 
barking  of  the  prowling  jackals;  in  the  noon-tide  heat, 
and  in  the  cold  glimmer  of  the  quiet  stars,  he  was  never 
unconscious  of  its  haunting  presence,  he  was  never  be- 
yond its  influence.  He  was  never  quite  alone.  .  .  . 

What  did  it  mean?  And  why  did  this  hint  of  danger, 
of  pain,  of  loneliness  lurk  behind  the  exhilaration  and  the 
peace  ?  Wherein  lay  the  essence  of  the  enchantment  this 
singular  Egyptian  glamour  laid  upon  his  very  soul  ? 


The  Wave  165 

In  his  laborious  way,  Tom  worked  at  the  disentangle- 
ment, but  without  much  success.  One  curious  thought, 
however,  persisted  with  a  strange  enough  significance. 
It  rose,  in  a  sense,  unbidden.  It  was  not  his  brain  that 
discovered  it.  It  just  "came." 

For  he  was  thinking  of  other  wonderful  countries  he 
had  known.  He  remembered  Japan  and  India,  both  sur- 
passing Egypt  in  color,  sunshine,  gorgeous  pageantry, 
and  certainly  equaling  it  in  historical  association  and  the 
rest.  Yet,  for  him,  these  old  lands  had  no  spell,  no 
glamour  comparable  to  what  he  now  experienced.  The 
mind  contains  them,  understands  them  easily.  They  are 
continuous  with  their  past.  The  traveler  drops  in  and 
sees  them  as  they  always  have  been.  They  are  still,  so  to 
speak,  going  on  comfortably  as  before.  There  is  no  shock 
of  dislocation.  They  have  not  died. 

Whereas  Egypt  has  left  the  world;  Egypt  is  dead; 
there  is  no  link  with  present  things.  Both  heart  and  mind 
are  aware  of  this  deep  vacuum  they  vainly  strive  to  fill. 
That  ancient  civilization,  both  marvelous  and  somewhere 
monstrous,  breaking  with  beauty,  burning  with  aspiration, 
mysterious  and  vital — all  has  vanished  as  completely  as 
though  it  had  not  been.  The  prodigious  ruins  hint,  but 
cannot  utter.  No  reconstruction  from  tomb  or  temple 
can  recall  a  great  dream  the  world  has  lost.  It  is  for- 
gotten, swept  away,  there  is  no  clue.  Egypt  has  left  the 
world.  .  .  . 

Yet,  as  he  thought  about  it  in  his  uninspired  way,  it 
seemed  that  some  part  of  him  still  beat  in  sympathy  with 
the  pulse  of  the  forgotten  dream.  Egypt  indeed  was 
dead,  yet  sometimes — she  came  back.  .  .  .  She  came  to 
revisit  her  soft  stars  and  moon,  her  great  temples  and 
her  mighty  tombs.  She  stole  back  into  the  sunshine  and 
the  sand ;  her  broken,  ruined  heart  at  Thebes  received  her. 
He  saw  her  as  a  spirit,  a  persistent,  living  presence,  a 
stupendous  Ghost.  .  .  . 

And  the  idea,  having  offered  itself,  remained.     Both 


166  The  Wave 

he  and  Lattice  somehow  were  associated  with  it,  and  with 
this  elusive  notion  of  return.  They,  too,  were  entangled 
in  the  glamour  and  the  spell.  They,  too,  had  stolen  back  as 
from  some  immemorial  lost  dream  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  an  intenser  yet  forgotten  life.  And  Thebes  was  its 
center;  the  secretive  and  forbidding  Theban  Hills,  with 
their  desolate  myriad  sepulchers,  its  focus  and  its 
climax.  .  .  . 

Assouan  detained  him  only  a  couple  of  days.  He  had 
capable  lieutenants;  there  was  delay,  moreover,  in  the 
arrival  of  certain  material ;  he  could  always  be  summoned 
quickly  by  telephone.  He  sent  home  his  report  and  took 
the  express  train  back  to  Luxor  and  to — her. 

He  had  been  too  occupied,  too  tired  at  night,  to  do 
more  than  write  a  fond,  short  letter,  then  go  to  sleep ;  the 
heat  was  considerable ;  he  realized  that  he  was  in  Africa ; 
the  scenery  fascinated  him,  the  enormous  tawny  desert, 
the  cataracts  of  golden  yellow  sand,  the  magical  old  river. 
The  wonder  of  Philae,  with  its  Osirian  shrine  and 
island  sanctuary,  caught  him  as  it  has  caught  most  other 
humans.  After  the  sheer  bulk  of  the  pyramids  and  tem- 
ples, Philae  bursts  into  the  heart  with  almost  lyrical 
sweetness.  But  his  heart  was  fast  in  Thebes,  and  not  all 
the  enchantment  of  this  desert  paradise  could  seduce  him. 
Moreover,  one  detail  he  disliked :  the  ubiquitous  earthen- 
ware tom-tom  that  sounded  day  and  night  ...  he  heard 
its  sullen  beating  in  his  dreams. 

Yet  of  one  thing  he  was  ever  chiefly  conscious — that  he 
was  impatient  to  be  with  Lettice,  that  his  heart  hungered 
without  ceasing,  that  she  meant  more  to  him  than  ever. 
Her  new  beauty  astonished  him,  there  was  a  subtle  charm 
in  her  presence  he  had  not  felt  in  London,  her  fresh  spon- 
taneous gaiety  rilled  him  with  keen  delight.  And  all  this 
was  his.  His  arrival  gave  her  such  joy  that  she  could 
not  even  speak  of  it ;  yet  he  was  the  cause  of  it.  It  made 
him  feel  almost  shy. 


The  Wave  167 

He  received  one  characteristic  letter  from  her.  "Come 
back  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  she  wrote.  "Tony  has  gone 
down  the  river  after  his  birds,  and  I  feel  lonely.  Tele- 
graph, and  come  to  dinner  or  breakfast  according  to  your 
train.  I'll  meet  you  if  possible.  You  must  come  here 
for  all  your  meals  as  I'm  sure  the  hotel  food  is  poor  and 
the  drinking  water  unsafe.  This  is  open  house,  remem- 
ber, for  you  both."  And  there  was  a  delicious  P.S. 
"Mind  you  only  drink  filtered  water,  and  avoid  the  hotel 
salads  because  the  water  hasn't  been  boiled."  He  kissed 
the  letter.  He  laughed.  Her  tender  thought  for  him 
almost  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes.  It  was  the  tender- 
ness of  his  own  mother  who  was  dead. 

He  reached  Luxor  in  the  evening,  and  to  his  delight 
she  was  on  the  platform;  long  before  the  train  stopped 
he  recognized  her  figure,  the  wide  sun-hat  with  the  little 
roses,  the  white  serge  skirt  and  jacket  of  knitted  yellow 
silk  to  keep  the  evening  chill  away.  They  drove  straight 
to  her  house ;  the  sun  was  down  behind  the  rocky  hills  and 
the  Nile  lay  in  a  dream  of  burnished  gold ;  the  little  owls 
were  calling ;  there  was  singing  among  the  native  boatmen 
on  the  water;  they  saw  the  fields  of  brilliant  green  with 
the  sands  beyond,  and  the  keen  air  from  the  desert  wafted 
down  the  street  of  what  once  was  great-hundred-gated 
Thebes.  A  strangely  delicate  perfume  hung  about  the 
ancient  city.  Tom  turned  to  look  at  the  woman  beside 
him  in  the  narrow-seated  carriage,  and  felt  as  if  he  were 
driving  through  a  dream. 

"I  can  stay  a  week  or  ten  days  at  least,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Is  old  Tony  back?" 

Yes,  he  had  just  arrived  and  telephoned  to  ask  if  he 
might  come  to  dinner.  "And  look,  Tom,  you  can  just  see 
the  heads  of  the  Colossi  rising  out  of  the  haze," — she 
pointed  quickly — "I  thought  we  would  go  and  show  them 
you  to-morrow.  We  might  all  take  our  tea  and  eat  it  in 
the  clover.  You've  seen  nothing  of  Egypt  yet."  She 
spoke  rapidly,  eagerly,  full  of  her  little  plan. 


168  The  Wave 

"All?"  he  repeated  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  wouldn't  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  rather/'  he  said,  wondering  why  he  did  not  say 
another  thing  that  rose  for  a  moment  in  his  mind. 

"You  must  see  everything,"  she  went  on  spontaneously, 
"and  a  dragoman's  a  bore.  Tony's  a  far  better  guide. 
He  knows  old  Egypt  as  well  as  he  knows  his  old  birds." 
She  laughed.  "It's  too  ridiculous — his  enthusiasm;  he's 
been  dying  to  explain  it  all  to  you  as  he  did  to  me,  and 
he  does  it  exactly  like  a  museum  guide  who  is  a  scholar 
and  a  poet  too.  And  he  is  a  poet,  you  know.  I'd  never 
noticed  it  before." 

"Splendid,"  said  Tom.  He  was  thinking  several 
things  at  once,  among  them  that  the  perfumed  air  re- 
minded him  of  something  he  could  not  quite  recall.  It 
seemed  far  away  and  yet  familiar.  "I'm  a  rare  listener 
too,"  he  added. 

"The  King's  Valley  you  really  must  do  alone  together," 
she  went  on,  "I  can't  face  it  a  second  time — the  heat,  the 
gloom  of  it — it  oppressed  and  frightened  me  a  little. 
Those  terrible  grim  hills — they're  full  of  death,  those 
Theban  hills." 

"Tony  took  you?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "We  did  the  whole  thing,"  she  added, 
"every  single  Tomb.  I  was  exhausted.  I  think  we  all 
were — except  Tony."  The  eager  look  in  her  face  had 
gone.  Her  voice  betrayed  a  certain  effort.  A  darkness 
floated  over  it,  like  the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud. 

"All  of  you!"  he  exclaimed,  as  though  it  were  impor- 
tant. "No  bird-man  ever  feels  tired."  He  seemed  to 
think  a  moment.  There  was  a  tiny  pause.  The  carriage 
was  close  to  the  house  now,  driving  up  with  a  flourish, 
and  Tony  and  Mrs.  Haughstone,  an  incongruous  couple, 
were  visible  standing  against  the  luminous  orange  sky 
beside  the  river.  Tom  pointed  to  them  with  a  chuckle. 
"All  right,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture  as  though  he 
came  to  a  decision  suddenly,  "it  shall  be  the  Colossi  to- 


The  Wave  169 

morrow.  There  are  two  of  them,  aren't  there — only 
two?" 

"Two,  yes,  the  Twin  Colossi,  they  call  them,"  she  re- 
plied, joining  in  his  chuckle  at  the  silhouetted  figures  in 
the  sunset. 

"Two,"  he  repeated  with  emphasis,  "not  three."  But 
either  she  did  not  notice  or  else  she  did  not  hear.  She 
was  leaning  forward  waving  her  hand  to  her  other  guests 
upon  the  bank. 

There  followed  then  the  happiest  week  that  Tom  had 
ever  known,  for  there  was  no  incident  to  mar  it,  nor  a 
single  word  or  act  that  cast  the  slightest  shadow.  His 
dread  of  the  "other"  who  was  to  come  apparently  had  left 
him,  the  faint  uneasiness  he  had  felt  so  often  seemed 
gone.  He  even  forgot  to  think  about  it.  Lettice  he  had 
never  seen  so  gay,  so  full  of  enterprise,  so  radiant.  She 
sparkled  as  though  she  had  recovered  her  girlhood  sud- 
denly. With  Tony  in  particular  she  had  incessant  battles, 
and  Tom  listened  to  their  conversations  with  amusement, 
for  on  no  single  subject  were  they  able  to  agree,  yet 
neither  seemed  to  get  the  best  of  it.  Tom  felt  unable  to 
keep  pace  with  their  more  nimble  minds.  .  .  . 

Tony  was  certainly  improved  in  many  ways,  more 
serious  than  he  had  showed  himself  before,  and  ex- 
traordinarily full  of  entertaining  knowledge  into  the  bar- 
gain. Birds  and  the  lore  of  ancient  Egypt,  it  appeared, 
were  merely  two  of  his  pet  hobbies ;  and  he  talked  in  such 
amusing  fashion  that  he  kept  Tom  in  roars  of  laughter, 
while  stimulating  Madame  Jaretzka  to  vehement  contra- 
dictions. They  were  much  alone,  and  profited  by  it.  The 
numerous  engagements  Lettice  had  mentioned  gave  no 
sign.  Tony  certainly  was  a  brilliant  companion  as  well 
as  an  instructive  cicerone.  There  was  more  in  him  than 
Tom  had  divined  before.  His  clever  humor  was  a  great 
asset  in  the  longer  expeditions.  "Tony,  I'm  tired  and 
hot;  please  come  and  talk  to  me:  I  want  refreshing" 


170  The  Wave 

was  never  addressed  to  Tom,  for  instance,  whose  good 
nature  could  not  take  the  place  of  wit.  Each  of  the 
three,  as  it  were,  supplied  what  the  other  lacked ;  it  was 
not  surprising  they  got  on  well  together.  Tom,  how- 
ever, though  always  happy  provided  Lettice  was  of  the 
party,  envied  his  cousin's  fluid  temperament  and  facile 
gifts — even  in  the  smallest  things.  Tony,  for  instance, 
would  mimic  Mrs.  Haughstone's  attitude  of  having  done 
her  hostess  a  kindness  in  coming  out  to  Egypt:  "I 
couldn't  do  it  again,  dear  Lettice,  even  for  you" — the 
way  Tony  said  and  acted  it  had  a  touch  of  inspiration. 

Mrs.  Haughstone  herself,  meanwhile,  within  the  limits 
of  her  angular  personality,  Tom  found  also  considerably 
improved.  Egypt  had  changed  her  too.  He  forgave 
her  much  because  she  was  afraid  of  the  sun,  so  left  them 
often  alone.  She  showed  unselfishness,  too,  even  kind- 
ness, on  more  than  one  occasion.  Tom  was  aware  of  a 
nicer  side  in  her;  in  spite  of  her  jealousy  and  criticism, 
she  was  genuinely  careful  of  her  hostess's  reputation 
amid  the  scandal-loving  atmosphere  of  Egyptian  hotel 
life.  It  amused  him  to  see  how  she  arrogated  to  herself 
the  place  of  chaperone,  yet  Tom  saw  true  solicitude  in  it, 
the  attitude  of  a  woman  who  knew  the  world  towards  one 
who  was  too  trustful.  He  figured  her  always  holding  up 
a  warning  finger,  and  Lettice  always  laughingly  disre- 
garding her  advice. 

Her  warnings  to  Lettice  to  be  more  circumspect  were, 
at  any  rate,  by  no  means  always  wrong.  Though  not 
particularly  observant  as  a  rule,  he  caught  more  than 
once  the  tail-end  of  conversations  between  them  in  which 
advice,  evidently,  had  been  proffered  and  laughed  aside. 
But,  since  it  did  not  concern  him,  he  paid  little  attention, 
merely  aware  that  there  existed  this  difference  of  view. 
One  such  occasion,  however,  Tom  had  good  cause  to 
remember,  because  it  gave  him  a  piece  of  knowledge 
he  had  long  desired  to  possess,  yet  had  never  felt  within 


The  Wave  171 

his  rights  to  ask  for.  Yet  it  merely  gave  details  of  some- 
thing he  already  knew. 

He  entered  the  room,  coming  straight  from  a  morn- 
ing's work  at  his  own  hotel,  and  found  them  engaged 
hammer  and  tongs  upon  some  dispute  regarding  "con- 
duct." Tony,  who  had  been  rowing  Madame  Jaretzka 
down  the  river,  had  made  his  escape.  Madame  Jaretzka 
effected  hers  as  Tom  came  in,  throwing  him  a  look  of 
comical  relief  across  her  shoulder.  He  was  alone  with 
the  Irish  cousin.  "After  all,  she  is  a  married  woman," 
remarked  Mrs.  Haughstone,  still  somewhat  indignant 
from  the  little  battle. 

She  addressed  the  words  to  him  as  he  was  the  only  per- 
son within  earshot.  It  seemed  natural  enough,  he  thought. 

"Yes,"  said  Tom  politely.    "I  suppose  she  is." 

And  it  was  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  that  the  woman 
spoke  to  him  as  though  he  knew  as  much  as  she  did. 
He  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  stopped  her,  but  the  tempta- 
tion was  too  great.  He  learned  the  facts  concerning 
Warsaw  and  the — husband.  That  the  Prince  had  ill- 
treated  her  consistently  during  the  first  five  years  of 
their  married  life  could  certainly  not  justify  her  freedom, 
but  that  he  had  lost  his  reason  incurably,  no  longer  even 
recognized  her,  that  her  presence  was  discouraged  by 
the  doctors,  since  it  increased  the  violence  of  his  attacks, 
and  that  his  malady  was  hopeless  and  could  end  only  in 
his  death — all  this,  while  adding  to  the  wonder  of  her 
faithful  pilgrimages,  did  assuredly  at  the  same  time  set 
her  free.  .  .  .  The  effect  upon  his  mind  may  be  im- 
agined; it  deepened  his  love,  increased  his  admiration, 
for  it  explained  the  suffering  in  the  face  she  had  turned 
to  sweetness,  while  also  justifying  her  conduct  towards 
himself.  With  a  single  final  blow,  moreover,  it  killed  the 
dread  Tom  had  been  haunted  by  so  long — that  this  was 
that  "other"  who  must  one  day  take  her  from  him, 
obedient  to  a  bigger  claim. 

This  knowledge,  as  though   surreptitiously  obtained, 


172  The  Wave 

Tom  locked  within  his  breast  until  the  day  when  she  her- 
self should  choose  to  share  it  with  him. 

He  remembered  another  little  conversation  too  when, 
similarly,  he  disturbed  them  in  discussion :  this  time  it 
was  Mrs.  Haughstone  who  was  called  away. 

"Behaving  badly,  Lettice,  is  she  ?    Scolding  you  again  ?" 

"Not  at  all.  Only  she  sees  the  bad  in  every  one  and  I 
see  the  good.  She  disapproves  of  Tony  rather." 

"Then  she  will  be  less  often  deceived  than  you,"  he 
replied  laughingly.  The  reference  to  Tony  had  escaped 
him ;  his  slow  mind  was  on  the  general  proposition. 

"Perhaps.  But  you  can  only  make  people  better  by 
believing  that  they  are  better,"  she  went  on  with  con- 
viction— when  Mrs.  Haughstone  joined  them  and  took 
up  her  parable  again : 

"My  cousin  behaves  like  a  child,"  she  said  with  amus- 
ing severity.  "She  doesn't  understand  the  world.  But 
the  world  is  hard  upon  grown-ups  who  behave  like  chil- 
dren. Lettice  thinks  everybody  good.  Her  innocence 
gets  her  misjudged.  And  it's  a  pity." 

"I'll  keep  an  eye  on  her,"  Tom  said  solemnly,  "and 
we'll  begin  this  very  afternoon." 

"Do,  Mr.  Kelverdon,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it."  And  as 
she  said  it,  he  noticed  another  expression  on  her  face  as 
she  glanced  down  the  drive  where  Tony,  dressed  in  gray 
flannels  and  singing  to  himself,  was  seen  sauntering  to- 
wards them.  She  wore  an  enigmatic  smile  by  no  means 
pleasant.  It  gave  him  a  moment's  twinge.  He  turned 
from  her  to  Lettice  by  way  of  relief.  She  was  waving 
her  white-gloved  hand,  her  eyes  were  shining,  her  little 
face  was  radiant — and  Tom's  happiness  came  back  upon 
him  in  a  rising  flood  again  as  he  watched  her  beauty. 
.  .  .  He  thought  that  Egypt  was  the  most  marvelous 
place  he  had  ever  known.  Even  Tony  looked  enchanted 
— almost  handsome.  But  Lettice  looked  divine.  He  felt 
more  and  more  that  the  woman  in  her  blossomed  into  life 
before  his  very  eyes.  His  content  was  absolute. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WTH  Tony  as  guide  they  took  their  fill  of  wonder. 
The  principal  expeditions  were  made  alone,  in- 
troducing Tom  to  the  marvels  of  ancient  Egypt  which 
they  already  knew.  On  the  sturdiest  donkey  Thebes 
could  furnish,  he  raced  his  cousin  across  the  burning 
sands,  Madame  Jaretzka  following  in  a  sand-cart,  her 
blue  veil  streaming  in  the  cool  north  wind.  They  played 
like  children,  defying  the  tide  of  mystery  that  this 
haunted  land  pours  against  the  modern  human  soul,  while 
yet  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  added  to  their  enjoy- 
ment, deepening  their  happiness  by  contrast. 

They  ate  their  al  fresco  luncheons  gaily,  seated  by 
hoary  tombs  that  opened  into  the  desolate  hills;  kings, 
priests,  princesses,  dead  six  thousand  years,  listening  in 
caverns  underground  to  their  careless  talk.  Yet  their 
gaiety  had  a  hush  in  it,  a  significance  behind  the  sen- 
tences ;  for  even  their  lightest  moments  touched  ever  upon 
the  borders  of  an  awfulness  that  was  sublime,  and  all 
that  they  said  or  did  gained  this  hint  of  deeper  value — 
that  it  was  set  against  a  background  of  the  infinite,  the 
deathless. 

It  was  impossible  to  forget  that  this  was  Egypt,  the 
deposit  of  immemorial  secrets,  the  store-house  of  stu- 
pendous vanished  dreams.  % 

"There  was  a  majesty,  after  all,  about  their  strange 
old  gods,"  said  Tony  one  afternoon  as  they  emerged 
from  the  stifling  darkness  of  a  forgotten  kingly  tomb  into 
the  sunlight.  "They  seem  to  thunder  still — below  the 
ground — subconsciously."  He  was  ever  ready  with  the 
latest  modern  catchword.  He  flung  himself  down  upon 
the  sand,  shaded  from  the  glare  by  a  recumbent  column 

173 


174  The  Wave 

of  granite  exquisitely  carved,  then  abandoned  of  the 
ages.  "They  touch  something  in  one  even  to-day — some- 
thing superb.  Human  worship  hasn't  changed  so  funda- 
mentally after  all." 

"A  sort  of  ghostly  deathlessness,"  agreed  Lettice,  mak- 
ing a  bed  of  sand  beside  him.  "I  think  that's  what  one 
feels." 

Tony  looked  up.  He  glanced  alertly  at  her.  A  ques- 
tion flashed  a  moment  in  his  eyes,  then  passed  unspoken. 

"Perhaps,"  Tony  went  on  in  a  more  flippant  tone, 
"even  the  dullest  has  to  acknowledge  the  sublime  in  their 
conceptions.  Isis !  Why,  the  very  name  is  a  poem  in  a 
single  word.  Anubis,  Nepthys,  Horus — there's  poetry  in 
them  all.  They  seem  to  sing  themselves  into  the  heart, 
as  Petrie  might  have  said — but  didn't." 

"The  names  are  rather  splendid,"  Tom  put  in,  as  he 
unpacked  the  kettle  and  spirit-lamp  for  tea.  "One  can't 
forget  them  either." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Tony  spoke  again. 
He  had  lost  his  flippant  tone.  He  addressed  his  remark 
to  Lettice.  Tom  was  aware  that  she  was  somehow  wait- 
ing for  it. 

"Their  deathlessness !  Yes,  you're  right."  He  turned 
an  instant  to  look  at  the  colossal  structure  behind  them, 
whence  the  imposing  figures  of  a  broken  Pharaoh  and 
his  Queen  stared  to  the  east  across  the  shoulder  of  some 
granite  Deity  that  had  refused  to  crumble  for  three  thou- 
sand years.  "Their  deathlessness,"  he  repeated,  lower- 
ing his  voice,  "it's  really  startling." 

He  looked  about  him.  It  was  amazing  how  his  little 
words,  his  gesture,  his  very  atmosphere  created  a  spon- 
taneous expectancy — as  though  Thoth  might  stride 
sublimely  up  across  the  sand,  or  even  Ra  himself  come 
blazing  with  extended  wings  and  awful  disk  of  fire. 

Tom  felt  the  touch  of  the  unearthly  as  he  watched  and 
listened.  Lettice — he  was  certain  of  it — shivered.  He 
moved  nearer  and  spread  a  rug  across  her  feet. 


The  Wave  175 

"Don't,  Tom,  please !  I'm  hot  enough  already."  Her 
tone  had  a  childish  exasperation  in  it — as  though  he  in- 
terrupted some  mood  that  gave  her  pleasure.  She  turned 
her  eyes  to  Tony,  but  Tony  was  busily  opening  sandwich 
packets  with  hands  that — Tom  thought — shared  one  qual- 
ity at  least  of  the  stone  effigies  they  had  been  discussing — 
size.  And  he  laughed.  The  spell  was  broken.  They  fell 
hungrily  upon  their  desert  meal.  .  .  . 

Yet,  it  was  odd  how  Tony  had  expressed  precisely  what 
Tom  had  himself  been  vaguely  feeling,  though  unable 
to  find  the  language  for  his  fancy — odd,  too,  that  ap- 
parently all  three  of  them  had  felt  the  same  dim  thing. 
No  one  among  them  was  "religious,"  nor,  strictly  speak- 
ing, imaginative ;  poetical  least  of  all,  in  the  regenerative, 
creative  sense.  Not  one  of  the  trio,  that  is,  could  have 
seized  imaginatively  the  conception  of  an  alien  deity  and 
made  it  live.  Yet  Tony's  idle  mood  or  idler  words  had 
done  this  very  thing — and  all  three  acknowledged  it  in 
their  various  ways.  The  flavor  of  a  remote  familiarity 
was  manifest  in  each  one  of  them — collectively  as  well. 

Another  time  they  sat  by  night  in  ruined  Karnak, 
watching  the  silver  moonlight  bring  out  another  world 
among  the  mighty  pylons.  It  painted  the  empty  and 
enormous  aisles  with  crowding  processions  of  lost  ages. 
Speaking  in  whispers,  they  saw  the  stars  peep  down  be- 
tween the  soaring  forest  of  old  stone;  the  cold  desert 
wind  brought  with  it  a  sadness,  a  mournful  retrospect 
too  vast  to  realize,  the  tragedy  that  such  splendor  left 
but  a  lifeless  skeleton  behind,  a  gigantic,  soul-less  ruin. 
That  such  great  prophecies  remained  unfulfilled  was 
somewhere  both  terrible  and  melancholy.  The  immortal 
strength  of  these  Egyptian  stones  conveyed  a  grandeur 
almost  sinister.  The  huge  dumb  beauty  seemed  menacing, 
even  ominous ;  they  sat  closer ;  they  felt  dwarfed  uncom- 
fortably, their  selves  reduced  to  insignificance,  almost 
threatened.  Even  Tony  sobered  as  they  talked  in  low- 


176  The  Wave 

ered  voices,  seated  in  the  shadow  of  the  towering  col- 
umns, their  feet  resting  on  the  sand. 

"I'm  sure  we've  sat  here  before  just  like  this,  the  three 
of  us,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice;  "it  all  seems  like  a 
dream  to  me." 

Madame  Jaretzka,  who  was  between  them,  made  no 
answer,  and  Tom,  leaning  forward,  caught  his  cousin's 
eye  beyond  her.  .  .  .  The  scene  in  the  London  theater 
flashed  across  his  mind.  He  felt  very  happy,  very  close 
to  them  both,  extraordinarily  at  one  with  them,  the 
woman  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world,  the  man  who  was 
his  greatest  friend.  He  felt  truth,  not  foolishness,  in 
Tony's  otherwise  commonplace  remarks  that  followed: 
"I  could  swear  I'd  known  you  both  before — here  in 
Egypt." 

Madame  Jaretzka  moved  a  little,  shuffling  further 
back  so  that  she  could  lean  against  the  great  curved  pillar. 
It  brought  them  closer  together  still.  She  said  no  word, 
however. 

"There's  certainly  a  curious  sympathy  between  the 
three  of  us,"  murmured  Tom,  who  usually  felt  out  of  his 
depth  in  similar  talks,  leaving  his  companions  to  carry  it 
further  while  he  listened  merely.  "It's  hard  to  believe 
that  we  meet  for  the  first  time  now." 

He  sat  close  to  her,  fingering  her  gauzy  veil  that 
brushed  his  face.  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Madame 
Jaretzka  said,  turning  to  Tony,  "We  met  here  first  any- 
how, didn't  we?  Two  winters  ago,  before  I  met 

But  Tony  said  he  meant  something  far  older  than  that, 
much  longer  ago.  "You  and  Tom  knew  each  other  as 
children,  you  told  me  once.  Tom  and  I  were  boys  to- 
gether too  .  .  .  but  ..." 

His  voice  died  away  in  Tom's  ears;  her  answers  also 
were  inaudible  as  she  kept  her  head  turned  towards  Tony : 
his  thoughts,  besides,  were  caught  away  a  moment  to 
the  days  in  Montreux  and  in  London.  .  .  .  He  fell  into 


The  Wave  177 

a  reverie  that  lasted  possibly  a  minute,  possibly  several 
minutes.  The  conversation  between  them  left  him  some- 
how out  of  it;  he  had  little  to  contribute;  they  had  an 
understanding,  as  it  were,  on  certain  subjects  that  neg- 
lected him.  His  mind  accordingly  left  them.  He  fol- 
lowed his  own  thoughts  dreamily  .  .  .  far  away  .  .  . 
past  the  deep  black  shadows  and  out  into  the  soft  blaze 
of  moonlight  that  showered  upon  the  distant  Theban 
hills.  .  .  .  He  remembered  the  curious  emotions  that  had 
marked  his  entry  into  Egypt.  He  thought  of  a  change 
in  Lettice,  at  present  still  undefined.  He  wondered  what 
it  was  about  her  now  that  lent  to  her  gentle  spirit  a  touch 
of  authority,  of  worldly  authority  almost,  that  he  dared 
not  fail  to  recognize — as  though  she  had  the  right  to  it. 
The  flavor  of  uneasiness  stole  back.  It  occurred  to  him 
suddenly  that  he  felt  no  longer  quite  at  home  with  her 
alone  as  of  old.  Some  one  watched  him:  some  one 
watched  them  both.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  though  for  the  first  time  he  realized  distance 
— a  new  distance  creeping  in  upon  their  relationship 
somewhere.  .  .  . 

A  slight  shiver  brought  him  back.  The  wind  came 
moaning  down  the  monstrous,  yawning  aisles  against 
them.  The  overpowering  effect  of  so  much  grandeur 
had  become  intolerable.  "Ugh  !  I'm  cold,"  he  exclaimed 
abruptly.  "I  vote  we  move  a  bit.  I  think — I'll  move 
anyhow." 

Madame  Jaretzka  turned  to  him  with  a  definite  start; 
she  straightened  herself  against  the  huge  sandstone  col- 
umn. The  moonlight  touched  her.  It  clothed  her  in 
gold  and  silver,  the  gold  of  the  sand,  the  silver  of  the 
moon.  She  looked  ethereal,  ghostly,  a  figure  of  air  and 
distance.  She  seemed  to  belong  to  her  surroundings — 
another  person  somehow — faintly  Egyptian  almost. 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep,  Tom,"  she  said  softly. 
She  had  been  in  the  middle  of  an  animated,  though  whis- 


i78  The  Wave 

pered  talk  with  Tony.  She  peered  at  him,  with  a  little 
smile  that  lifted  her  lip  oddly. 

"I  was  far  away  somewhere,"  he  returned,  peering  at 
her  closely.  "I  forgot  all  about  you  both.  I  thought, 
for  a  moment,  I  was  quite — alone." 

He  saw  her  start  again.  A  significance  he  hardly  in- 
tended had  crept  into  his  tone.  Her  face  moved  back  into 
the  shadow  quickly,  beside  Tony. 

She  teased  Tom  for  his  want  of  manners,  then  fell 
to  caring  for  his  comfort.  "It's  icy,"  she  said,  "and 
you're  in  flannels.  The  sudden  chill  of  these  Egyptian 
nights  is  really  treacherous,"  and  she  took  the  rug  from 
her  lap  and  put  it  round  his  shoulders.  As  she  did  so 
the  strange  appearance  he  had  noted  increased  about  her. 

And  Tom  got  up  abruptly.  "No,  Lettice  dear,  thank 
you;  I  think  I'll  move  a  bit."  He  had  said  "Lettice  dear" 
without  realizing  it,  and  before  his  cousin  too.  "I'll  take 
a  turn  and  then  come  back  for  you.  You  stay  here  with 
Tony,"  and  he  moved  off  somewhat  briskly. 

Then,  instantly,  the  other  two  rose  up  like  one  person, 
following  him  to  where  the  carriage  waited.  .  ., . 

"They're  frightening  rather,  don't  you  think — these 
ancient  places?"  she  said  presently,  as  they  drove  along 
past  palms  and  flat-topped  houses  of  the  felaheen. 
"There's  something  watching  and  listening  all  the  time." 

Tom  made  no  answer.  He  felt  suddenly  unsure  of 
something — almost  unsure  of  himself,  it  seemed. 

"One  feels  a  bit  lost,"  he  said  slowly  after  a  bit,  "and 
lonely.  It's  the  size,  I  think." 

"Perhaps,"  she  rejoined,  peering  at  him  with  half- 
lowered  eyelids,  "and  the  silence."  She  broke  off,  then 
added,  "You  can  hear  your  thoughts  too  clearly." 

Tom  was  sitting  back  amid  a  bundle  of  rugs  she  had 
wrapped  him  in;  Tony,  beside  her,  on  the  front  seat, 
seemed  in  a  gentle  doze.  They  drove  the  rest  of  the  way 
in  silence,  dropping  Tony  first  at  the  Savoy,  then  going 
on  to  Tom's  hotel.  She  insisted,  although  her  own  house 


The  Wave  179 

was  in  the  opposite  direction.  "And  you're  to  take  a  hot 
whisky  when  you  get  into  bed,  remember,  and  don't  get 
up  to-morrow  if  you  feel  a  chill."  She  gave  him  orders 
for  his  health  and  comfort  as  though  he  were  her  son. 
Tom  noticed  it,  told  her  she  was  divinely  precious  to 
him,  and  promised  faithfully  to  obey. 

"What  do  you  think  about  Tony?"  he  asked  suddenly, 
when  they  had  driven  alone  for  several  minutes.  "I 
mean,  what  impression  does  he  make  on  you?  How  do 
you  feel  him  ?" 

"He's  enjoying  himself  immensely  with  his  numerous 
friends,"  she  replied  at  once.  "He  grows  on  one  rather. 
He's  a  dear,  I  think."  She  looked  at  him,  then  turned 
away  again.  "Don't  you,  Tom?" 

"Oh,  rather.  I've  always  thought  so.  I  told  you  first 
long  ago,  didn't  I?"  He  made  no  reference  to  the  ex- 
aggeration about  the  friends.  "And  I  think  it's  wonder- 
ful how  well  we — what  a  perfect  trio  we  are." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?" 

They  both  became  thoughtful  then.  There  fell  a  pause 
between  them,  when  Tom  broke  in  abruptly  once  again: 

"But — what  do  you  feel?  Because  I  think  he's  half 
in  love  with  you,  if  you  want  to  know."  He  leaned  over 
and  whispered  in  her  ear.  The  words  tumbled  out  as 
though  they  were  in  a  hurry.  "It  pleases  me  immensely, 
Lettice;  it  makes  me  feel  so  proud  of  you  and  happy. 
It'll  do  him  a  world  of  good,  too,  if  he  loves  a  woman 
like  you.  You'll  teach  him  something."  She  smiled  shyly 
and  said,  "I  wonder,  Tom.  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  He 
certainly  seems  fond  of  me,  but  I  hadn't  thought  quite 
that.  You  think  everybody  must  fall  in  love  with  me." 
She  pushed  him  away  with  a  gentle  yet  impatient 
pressure  of  her  arm,  indicating  the  Arab  coachman  with 
a  nod  of  her  head.  "Take  care  of  him,  Lettice :  he's  a 
dear  fellow ;  don't  let  him  break  his  heart." 

Tom  began  to  flirt  outrageously;  his  arm  crept  round 
her,  he  leaned  over  and  stole  a  kiss — and  to  his  amaze- 


180  The  Wave 

ment  she  did  not  try  to  stop  him.  She  did  not  seem  to 
notice  it.  She  sat  very  still — a  stone  statue  in  the  moon- 
light 

Then,  suddenly,  he  realized  that  she  had  not  replied 
to  his  question.  He  promptly  repeated  it  therefore. 
"You  put  me  off  with  what  he  feels,  but  I  want  to  know 
what  you  feel,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"But,  Tom,  I'm  not  putting  you  off,  as  you  call  it — 
with  anything,"  and  there  was  a  touch  of  annoyance  in 
her  tone  and  manner. 

"Tell  me,  Lettice ;  it  interests  me.  You're  such  a  puz- 
zle, d'you  know — ?  out  here."  His  tone  unconsciously 
grew  more  earnest  as  he  spoke. 

Madame  Jaretzka  broke  into  a  little  laugh.  "You 
boy !"  she  exclaimed  teasingly,  "you're  trying  to  heighten 
his  value  so  as  to  increase  your  own  by  contrast.  The 
more  people  you  can  find  in  love  with  me,  the  more  you'll 
be  able  to  flatter  yourself." 

Tom  laughed  with  her,  though  he  did  not  quite  under- 
stand. He  had  never  heard  her  say  such  a  thing  be- 
fore. He  accepted  the  cleverness  she  gave  him  credit 
for,  however.  "Of  course,  and  why  shouldn't  I  ?"  And  he 
was  just  going  to  put  his  original  question  in  another 
form,  had  already  begun  it,  in  fact,  when  she  interrupted 
him,  putting  her  hand  playfully  over  his  mouth  for  a 
second :  "I  do  think  Tony's  a  happy  entertaining  sort 
of  man,"  she  told  him,  "even  fascinating  in  a  certain 
kind  of  way.  He's  very  stimulating  to  me.  And  I  feel — 
don't  you,  Tom?" — a  slight  change — was  it  softness? — 
crept  into  her  tone — "a  sort  of  beauty  in  him  some- 
where?" 

"Yes,  p'raps  I  do,"  he  assented  briefly,  "but,  I  say, 
Lettice  darling,  you  mischievous  Egyptian  princess." 

"Be  quiet,  Tom,  and  take  your  arm  away.  Here's  the 
hotel  in  sight."  And  yet,  somehow,  he  fancied  that  she 
preferred  his  action  to  the  talk. 

"Tell  me  this  first,"  he  went  on,  obeying  her  peremp- 


The  Wave  181 

tory  tone :  "do  you  think  it's  true  that  we  three  have 
been  together  before  like  that — as  Tony  said,  I  mean? 
It's  a  funny  thing,  but  I  swear  it  sounded  true  when  he 
said  it."  His  tone  was  earnest  again.  "It  gave  me  the 
creeps  a  bit,  and,  d'you  know,  you  looked  so  queer,  so 
wonderful  in  the  moonlight — you  looked  un-English,  for- 
eign— like  one  of  those  Egyptian  figures  come  to  life. 
That's  what  made  me  cold,  I  think."  His  laughter  died 
away.  He  was  grave  suddenly.  He  sighed  a  little  and 
moved  closer  to  her.  "That's — what  made  me  get  up 
and  leave  you,"  he  added  abruptly. 

"Oh,  he's  always  saying  that  kind  of  thing,"  she  an- 
swered quickly,  moving  the  rugs  for  him  to  get  out  as 
the  carriage  slowed  up  before  the  brilliantly  lit  hotel. 
She  made  no  reference  to  his  other  words.  "There's 
a  lot  of  poetry  in  Tony  too — out  here." 

"Said  it  before,  has  he?"  exclaimed  Tom  with  genuine 
astonishment.  "All  three  of  us  or — or  just  you  and  him? 
Am  /  in  the  business  too  ?"  He  was  now  bubbling  over 
with  laughter  again  for  some  reason ;  it  all  seemed  com- 
ical, almost.  Yet  it  was  a  sudden,  an  emotional  laugh- 
ter. His  emotion — his  excitement  surprised  him  even  at 
the  time. 

"All  three  of  us— I  think,"  she  said,  as  he  held  her 
hand  a  moment,  saying  good-by.  "Yes,  all  three  of  us, 
of  course.  Now  good-night,  you  inquisitive  and  imperti- 
nent boy,  and  if  you  have  to  stay  in  bed  to-morrow  we'll 
come  over  and  nurse  you  all  day  long."  He  answered 
that  he  would  certainly  stay  in  bed  in  that  case — and 
watched  her  waving  her  hand  over  the  back  of  the  car- 
riage as  she  drove  away  into  the  moonlight  like  a  fading 
dream  of  stars  and  mystery  and  beauty.  Then  he  took 
his  telegrams  and  letters  from  the  Arab  porter  with  the 
face  of  expressionless  bronze,  and  went  up  to  bed. 

"What  a  strange  and  wonderful  woman !"  he  thought 
as  the  lift  rushed  him  up :  "out  here  she  seems  another 
being,  and  a  thousand  times  more  fascinating."  He  felt 


1 82  The  Wave 

almost  that  he  would  like  to  win  her  all  over  again  from 
the  beginning.  "She's  different  to  what  she  was  in  Eng- 
land. Tony's  different  too.  And  so  am  I,  I  do  believe !" 
he  exclaimed  in  his  bedroom,  looking  at  his  sunburned 
face  in  the  glass  a  moment.  "We're  all  different!"  He 
felt  singularly  happy,  hilarious,  stimulated — a  deep  and 
curious  excitement  was  in  him.  Above  all  there  was 
high  pride  that  she  belonged  to  him  so  absolutely.  And 
the  analysis  he  had  indulged  in  England  vanished  here. 
He  forgot  it  all.  .  .  .  He  was  in  Egypt  with  her  .  .  . 
now. 

He  read  his  letters  and  telegrams,  only  half  realizing 
at  first  that  they  called  him  back  to  Assouan.  "What  a 
bore,"  he  thought,  "I  simply  shan't  go.  A  week's  delay 
won't  matter.  I  can  telephone." 

He  laid  them  down  upon  the  table  beside  him  and 
walked  out  on  to  his  balcony.  Responsibility  seemed  less 
in  him.  He  felt  a  little  reckless.  His  position  was  quite 
secure.  He  was  his  own  master.  He  meant  to  enjoy 
himself.  .  .  .  But  another,  deeper  voice  was  sounding  in 
him  too.  He  heard  it,  but  at  first  refused  to  recognize 
it.  It  whispered.  One  word  it  whispered:  "Stay.  .  .!" 

There  was  no  sleep  in  him;  with  an  overcoat  thrown 
across  his  shoulders  he  watched  the  calm  Egyptian  night, 
the  soft  army  of  the  stars,  the  river  gleaming  in  a  broad 
band  of  silver.  Hitherto  Lettice  had  monopolized  his 
energies,  he  had  neglected  Egypt,  whose  indecipherable 
meaning  now  came  floating  in  upon  him  with  a  strange 
insistence.  Lettice  came  with  it  too.  The  two  beauties 
were  indistinguishable.  .  .  . 

A  flock  of  boats  lay  motionless,  their  black  masts  hang- 
ing in  mid-air ;  all  was  still  and  silent,  no  voices,  no  foot- 
steps, no  movements  anywhere.  In  the  distance  the  deso- 
late rocky  hills  rolled  like  a  solid  wave  along  the  horizon. 
Gaunt  and  mysterious,  they  loomed  upon  the  night.  They 
were  pierced  by  myriad  tombs,  those  solemn  hills;  the 


The  Wave  183 

stately  dead  lay  there  in  hundreds;  he  imagined  them 
looking  forth  a  moment  like  himself  across  the  peace 
and  silence  of  the  moonlit  desert.  They  focussed  upon 
Thebes,  upon  the  white  hotel,  upon  a  modern  world  they 
could  not  recognize — upon  his  very  windows.  It  seemed 
to  him  for  a  moment  that  their  ancient  eyes  met  his  own 
across  the  sand,  across  the  silvery  river,  and,  as  they 
met,  a  shadowy  gleam  of  recognition  passed  between 
them  and  himself.  At  the  same  time  he  also  saw  the 
eyes  he  loved.  They  gazed  through  half-closed  eyelids 
.  .  .  the  eastern  eyes  of  his  early  boyhood's  dream.  He 
remembered  again  the  strange  emotion  of  the  day  he  first 
arrived  in  Egypt,  weeks  ago.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  suddenly  thought  of  Tony,  and  of  Tony's 
careless  remark  as  they  sat  in  ruined  Karnak  together: 
"I  feel  as  if  we  three  had  all  been  here  before." 

Why  it  returned  to  him  just  now  he  did  not  know: 
for  some  reason  unexplained  the  phrase  revived  in  him. 
Perhaps  he  felt  an  instinctive  sympathy  towards  the 
poet's  idea  that  he  and  she  were  lovers  of  such  long 
standing,  of  such  ancient  lineage.  It  flattered  his  pride, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  disturbed  him.  A  sense  of 
vague  disquiet  grew  stronger  in  him.  In  any  case,  he 
did  not  dismiss  it  and  forget — his  natural  way  of  treat- 
ing fancies.  "Perhaps,"  he  murmured,  "the  bodies  she 
and  I  once  occupied  lie  there  now — lie  under  the  very 
stars  their  eyes — our  own — once  looked  upon." 

It  was  strange  the  fancy  took  such  root  in  him.  .  .  . 
He  stood  a  long  time  gazing  at  the  vast,  lonely  necropolis 
among  the  mountains.  There  was  an  extraordinary  still- 
ness over  that  western  bank,  where  the  dead  lay  in  their 
ancient  tombs.  The  silence  was  eloquent,  but  the  whole 
sky  whispered  to  his  soul.  And  again  he  felt  that  Egypt 
welcomed  him ;  he  was  curiously  at  home  here.  It  moved 
the  deeps  in  him,  brought  him  out;  it  changed  him;  it 
brought  out  Lettice  too — brought  out  a  certain  power 
in  her.  She  was  more  of  a  woman  here,  a  woman  of  the 


i84  The  Wave 

world.  She  was  more  wilful,  and  more  human.  Values 
had  subtly  altered.  Tony  himself  was  altered.  .  .  . 
Egypt  affected  them  all  three.  .  .  . 

The  vague  uneasiness  persisted.  His  mood  changed 
a  little,  the  excitement  gradually  subsided;  thought 
shifted  to  a  minor  key,  subdued  by  the  beauty  of  the 
southern  night.  The  world  lay  in  a  mysterious  glow, 
the  hush  was  exquisite.  Yet  there  was  expectancy :  that 
glow,  that  hush  were  ready  to  burst  into  flame  and  lan- 
guage. They  covered  secrets.  Something  was  watching 
him.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  a  thousand  old,  forgotten 
things.  .  .  . 

He  no  longer  thought,  but  felt.  The  calm,  the  peace, 
the  silence  laid  soothing  ringers  against  the  running  of 
his  blood;  the  turbulent  condition  settled  down.  Then, 
through  the  quieting  surface  of  his  reverie,  stole  up  a 
yet  deeper  mood  that  seemed  evoked  partly  by  the  mys- 
terious glamour  of  the  scene,  yet  partly  by  his  will  to 
let  it  come.  It  had  been  a  long  time  in  him ;  he  now  let 
it  up  to  breathe.  It  came,  moreover,  with  ease,  and 
quickly. 

For  a  gentle  sadness  rose  upon  him,  a  sadness  deeply 
hidden  that  he  suddenly  laid  bare  as  of  set  deliberation. 
The  recent  play  and  laughter,  above  all  his  own  excite- 
ment, had  purposely  concealed  it — from  others  possibly, 
but  certainly  from  himself.  The  excitement  had  been 
a  mask  assumed  by  something  deeper  in  him  he  had 
wished — and  tried — to  hide.  Gently,  it  came  at  first,  this 
sadness,  then  with  increasing  authority  and  speed.  It 
rose  about  him  like  a  cloud  that  hid  the  stars  and  dimmed 
the  sinking  moon.  It  spread  a  veil  between  him  and  the 
rocky  cemetery  on  those  mournful  hills  beyond  the  Nile. 
In  a  sense  it  seemed,  indeed,  to  issue  thence.  It  ema- 
nated from  their  silence  and  their  ancient  tombs.  It  sank 
into  him.  It  was  penetrating — it  was  familiar — it  was 
deathless. 

But  it  was  no  mood  of  common  sadness,  there  lay  no 


The  Wave  185 

physical  tinge  in  it ;  but  rather  a  deep,  unfathomable  sad- 
ness of  the  spirit:  an  inner  loneliness.  From  his  inmost 
soul  it  issued  outwards,  meeting  half-way  some  sense  of 
similar  loneliness  that  breathed  towards  him  from  these 
tragic  Theban  hills.  .  .  . 

And  Tom,  not  understanding  it,  tried  to  shake  himself 
free  again ;  he  called  up  cheerful  things  to  balance  it ;  he 
thought  of  his  firm  position  in  the  world,  of  his  proud 
partnership,  of  his  security  with  her  he  loved,  of  his 
zest  in  life,  of  the  happy  prospect  immediately  in  front 
of  him.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  the  mood  crept  upwards 
like  a  rising  wave,  swamping  his  best  resistance,  drown- 
ing all  appeal  to  joy  and  confidence.  He  recognized  an 
unwelcome  revival  of  that  earlier  nightmare  dread  con- 
nected with  his  boyhood,  things  he  had  decided  to  forget, 
and  had  forgotten  as  he  thought.  The  mood  took  him 
gravely,  with  the  deepest  melancholy  he  had  ever  known. 
It  had  begun  so  delicately;  it  became  in  a  little  while 
so  determined;  it  threatened  to  overmaster  him.  He 
turned  then  and  faced  it,  so  to  speak.  He  looked  hard 
at  it  and  asked  of  himself  its  meaning.  Thought  and 
emotion  in  him  shuffled  with  their  shadowy  feet. 

And  then  he  realized  that,  in  germ  at  any  rate,  the 
mood  had  lain  actually  a  long  time  in  him,  deeply  con- 
cealed— the  surface  excitement  merely  froth.  He  had 
hidden  it  from  himself.  It  had  been  accumulating,  gain- 
ing strength  and  impetus,  pausing  upon  direction  only. 
All  the  hours  just  spent  at  Karnak  it  had  been  there, 
drawing  nearer  to  the  surface,  this  very  night,  but  a  little 
while  ago,  during  the  drive  home  as  well,  before  that 
even,  during  all  the  talks  and  outdoor  meals  and  ex- 
peditions: he  traced  its  existence  suddenly,  and  with 
tiny  darts  of  piercing,  unintelligible  pain,  as  far  back 
as  Alexandria  and  the  day  of  his  arrival  It  seemed  to 
justify  the  vivid  emotions  that  had  marked  his  entry 
into  Egypt.  It  became  sharply  clear  now — this  had  been 
in  him  subconsciously  since  the  moment  when  he  read 


1 86  The  Wave 

the  little  letter  of  welcome  Lettice  sent  to  meet  him  at  the 
steamer,  a  letter  he  discovered  afterwards  was  curiously 
empty.  This  disappointment,  this  underlying  sadness  he 
had  kept  hidden  from  himself:  he  now  laid  it  bare  and 
recognized  it.  He  faced  it.  With  a  further  flash  he 
traced  it  finally  to  the  journey  in  the  train  when  he  had 
read  over  the  Warsaw  and  the  Egyptian  letters. 

And  he  felt  startled :  something  at  the  roots  of  his  life 
was  trembling.  He  tried  to  think.  But  Tom  was  slow ; 
he  could  feel,  but  he  could  not  dissect  and  analyze.  In- 
trospection, with  him,  invariably  darkened  vision,  led 
to  distortion  and  bewilderment.  The  effort  to  examine 
closely  confused  him.  Instead  of  dissipating  the  emo- 
tion, he  intensified  it.  The  sense  of  loneliness  grew  in- 
explicably— a  great,  deep  loneliness,  a  loneliness  of  the 
spirit,  a  loneliness,  moreover,  that  it  seemed  to  him  he 
had  experienced  before,  though  when,  under  what  condi- 
tions, he  could  not  anywhere  remember. 

His  former  happiness  was  gone,  the  false  excitement 
with  it.  This  freezing  loneliness  stole  in  and  took  their 
places.  Its  explanation  lay  hopelessly  beyond  him, 
though  he  felt  sure  it  had  to  do  with  this  haunted  and 
mysterious  land  where  he  now  found  himself,  and  in  a 
measure  with  her,  even  with  Tony  too.  .  .  . 

The  hint  Egypt  dropped  into  him  upon  his  arrival  was 
a  true  one — he  had  slipped  over  an  edge,  slipped  into 
something  underneath,  below  him — something  past.  But 
slipped  with  her.  She  had  come  back  to  fetch  him. 
They  had  come  back  to  fetch — each  other  .  .  .  through 
pain.  .  .  . 

And  a  shadow  from  those  somber  Theban  mountains 
crept,  as  it  were,  upon  his  life.  He  knew  a  sinking  of 
the  heart,  a  solemn,  dark  presentiment  that  murmured  in 
his  blood  the  syllables  of  "tragedy."  To  his  complete 
amazement — at  first  he  refused  to  believe  it  indeed — 
there  came  a  lump  into  his  throat,  as  though  tears  must 
follow  to  relieve  the  strain;  and  a  moment  later  there 


The  Wave  187 

was  moisture,  a  perceptible  moisture,  in  his  eyes.  The 
sadness  had  so  swiftly  passed  into  foreboding,  with  a 
sense  of  menacing  tragedy  that  oppressed  him  without 
cause  or  explanation.  Joy  and  confidence  collapsed  be- 
fore it  like  a  paper  platform  beneath  the  pressure  of  a 
wind.  His  feet  and  hands  were  cold.  He  shivered.  .  .  . 

Then,  gradually,  as  he  stood  there  watching  the  calm 
procession  of  the  stars,  he  felt  the  ominous  emotion  draw 
down  again,  retreat.  Deep  down  inside  him  whence  it 
came,  it  retired  into  a  kind  of  interior  remoteness  that 
lay  beyond  his  reach.  It  was  incredible  and  strange. 
The  intensity  had  made  it  seem  so  real.  .  .  .  For,  while 
it  lasted,  he  had  felt  himself  bereft,  lonely  beyond  all 
telling,  outcast,  lost,  forgotten,  wrapped  in  a  cold  and 
desolate  misery  that  frightened  him  past  all  belief.  The 
hand  that  lit  his  pipe  still  trembled.  But  the  mood  had 
passed  as  mysteriously  as  it  came.  It  left  him  curiously 
shaken  in  his  heart.  "Perhaps  this  too,"  thought  mur- 
mured from  some  depth  in  him  he  could  neither  control 
nor  understand,  "perhaps  this  too  is — Egypt." 

He  went  to  bed,  emotion  all  smoothed  out  again,  yet 
wondering  a  good  deal  at  himself.  For  the  odd  up- 
heaval was  a  new  experience.  Such  an  attack  had  never 
come  to  him  before;  he  laughed  at  it,  called  it  hysteria, 
and  decided  that  its  cause  was  physical;  he  persuaded 
himself  that  it  had  a  very  banal  cause — a  chill,  even  a 
violent  chill,  incipient  fever  and  over-fatigue  at  the  back 
of  it.  He  smiled  at  himself,  while  obeying  the  loving 
orders  he  had  received,  and  brewing  the  comforting  hot 
mixture  with  his  spirit  lamp. 

Then,  drinking  it,  he  looked  round  the  room  with  satis- 
faction at  the  various  evidences  of  precious,  motherly 
care.  This  mother-love  restored  his  happiness  by  de- 
grees. His  more  normal,  stolid,  unimaginative  self 
climbed  back  into  its  place  again — yet  with  a  touch  of 
awkwardness  and  difficulty.  Something  in  him  was 
changed,  or  changing;  he  had  surprised  it  in  the  act 


i88  The  Wave 

The  nature  of  the  change  escaped  him,  however.  It 
seemed,  perhaps — this  was  the  nearest  he  could  get  to  it, 
— that  something  in  him  had  weakened,  some  sense  of 
security,  of  confidence,  of  self-complacency,  given  way 
a  little.  Only  it  was  not  his  certainty  of  the  mother- 
love  in  her:  that  remained  safe  from  all  possible  attack. 
A  tinge  of  uneasiness  still  lay  like  a  shadow  on  his  mind 
— until  the  fiery  spirit  chased  it  away,  and  a  heavy  sleep 
came  over  him  that  lasted  without  a  break  until  he  woke 
two  hours  after  sunrise. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  sprang  from  his  bed,  went  to  the  open  window 
and  thrust  his  head  out  into  the  crystal  atmosphere. 
It  was  impossible  to  credit  the  afflicting  nightmare  of  a 
few  hours  ago.  Gold  lay  upon  the  world,  and  the  face 
of  Egypt  wore  her  great  Osirian  look. 

In  the  air  was  that  tang  of  mountain-tops  that  stimu- 
lated like  wine.  Everything  sparkled,  the  river  blazed, 
the  desert  was  a  sheet  of  burnished  bronze.  Light,  heat, 
and  radiance  pervaded  the  whole  glad  morning,  bathing 
even  his  bare  feet  on  the  warm,  soft  carpet.  It  was  good 
to  be  alive.  How  could  he  not  feel  happy  and  unafraid  ? 

The  change,  perhaps,  was  sudden;  it  certainly  was 
complete.  .  .  .  These  vivid  alternations  seemed  charac- 
teristic of  his  whole  Egyptian  winter.  Another  self 
thrust  up,  sank  out  of  sight,  then  rose  again.  The  con- 
fusion seemed  almost  due  to  a  pair  of  competing  selves, 
each  gaining  the  upper  hand  in  turn — sometimes  he  lived 
both  at  once.  .  .  .  The  uneasy  mood,  at  any  rate,  had 
vanished  with  the  darkness,  for  nothing  sad  or  heavy- 
footed  could  endure  amid  this  dancing  exhilaration  of 
the  morning.  Born  of  the  brooding  night  and  mournful 
hills,  his  recent  pain  was  forgotten. 

He  dressed  in  flannels,  and  went  his  way  to  the  house 
upon  the  Nile  soon  after  nine  o'clock;  he  certainly  had 
no  chill;  there  was  only  singing  in  his  heart.  The  curi- 
ous change  in  Lettice,  it  seemed,  no  longer  troubled  him. 
And,  finding  Tony  already  in  the  garden,  they  sat  in  the 
shade  and  smoked  together  while  waiting  for  their 
hostess.  Light-hearted  as  himself,  Tony  outlined  vari- 
ous projects,  to  which  the  other  readily  assented.  He 
persuaded  himself  easily,  if  recklessly;  the  work  could 

189 


The  Wave 

wait.  "We  simply  must  see  it  all  together,"  Tony  urged. 
"You  can  go  back  to  Assouan  next  week.  You'll  find 
everything  all  right.  Why  hurry  off?"  .  .  .  How  his 
cousin  had  improved,  Tom  was  thinking;  his  tact  was 
perfect ;  he  asked  no  awkward  questions ;  showed  no  in- 
quisitiveness.  He  just  assumed  that  his  companions  had 
a  right  to  be  fond  of  each  other,  while  taking  his  own 
inclusion  in  the  collective  friendship  for  granted  as  natu- 
ral too. 

And  when  Lettice  came  out  to  join  them,  radiant  in 
white,  with  her  broad  sun-hat  and  long  blue  veil  and 
pretty  gauntlet  gloves,  Tony  explained  with  enthusiasm 
at  the  beauty  of  the  picture :  "She's  come  into  her  own 
out  here  with  a  vengeance,"  he  declared.  "She  ought 
to  live  in  Egypt  always.  It  suits  her  down  to  the 
ground."  Whereupon  Tom,  pleased  by  the  spontaneous 
admiration,  whispered  proudly  to  himself,  "And  she  is 
mine — all  mine!"  Tony's  praise  seemed  to  double  her 
value  in  his  eyes  at  once.  So  Tony,  too,  was  aware  that 
she  had  changed;  had  noted  the  subtle  alteration,  the 
enhancement  of  her  beauty,  the  soft  Egyptian  transfor- 
mation ! 

"You'd  hardly  take  her  for  European,  I  swear — at  a 
distance — now,  would  you  ?" 

"N-no*"  Tom  agreed,  "perhaps  you  wouldn't "  at 

which  moment  precisely  the  subject  of  their  remarks 
came  up  and  threw  her  long  blue  veil  across  them  both 
with  the  command  that  it  was  time  to  start. 

The  following  days  were  one  long  dream  of  happiness 
and  wonder  spent  between  the  sunlight  and  the  stars. 
They  were  never  weary  of  the  beauty,  the  marvel,  and 
the  mystery  of  all  they  saw.  The  appeal  of  temple,  tomb, 
and  desert  was  so  intimate — it  seemed  instinctive.  The 
burning  sun,  the  scented  winds,  great  sunsets  and  great 
dawns,  these  with  the  palms,  the  river,  and  the  sand 
seemed  a  perfect  frame  about  a  perfect  picture.  They 
knew  a  kind  of  secret  pleasure  that  was  satisfying. 


The  Wave  191 

Egypt  harmonized  all  three  of  them.  And  if  Tom  did 
not  notice  the  change  increasing  upon  one  of  them,  it 
was  doubtless  because  he  was  too  much  involved  in  the 
general  happiness  to  see  it  separate. 

There  came  a  temporary  interruption,  however,  in  due 
course — his  conscience  pricked  him.  "I  really  must  take 
a  run  up  to  Assouan,"  he  decided.  "I've  been  rather  neg- 
lecting things  perhaps.  A  week  at  most  will  do  it — and 
then  for  another  ten  days'  holiday  again !" 

The  rhythm  broke,  as  it  were,  with  a  certain  sudden- 
ness. A  rift  came  in  the  collective  dream.  He  saw  de- 
tails again — saw  them  separate.  And  the  day  before  he 
left  a  trifling  thing  occurred  that  forced  him  to  notice 
the  growth  of  the  change  in  Lettice.  He  focussed  it.  It 
startled  him  a  little. 

The  others  had  not  sought  to  change  his  judgment. 
But  they  planned  an  all-night  bivouac  in  the  desert  for 
his  return;  they  would  sleep  with  blankets  on  the  sand, 
cook  their  supper  upon  an  open  fire,  and  see  the  dawn. 
"It's  an  exquisite  experience,"  said  Tony.  "The  stars 
fade  quickly,  there's  a  puff  of  warmer  wind,  and  the 
sun  comes  up  with  a  rush.  It's  marvelous.  I'll  get  de 
Lome  and  his  sister  to  join  us ;  he  can  tell  stories  round 
the  fire,  and  perhaps  slie  will  get  inspiration  at  last  for 
her  awful  pictures."  Madame  Jaretzka  laughed.  "Then 
we  must  have  Lady  Sybil  too,"  she  added;  "de  Lome 
may  find  courage  to  propose  to  her  fortune  at  last." 
Tom  looked  up  at  her  with  a  momentary  surprise.  "I 
declare,  Lettice,  you've  grown  quite  worldly;  that's  a 
very  cynical  remark  and  point  of  view." 

He  said  it  teasingly,  but  it  was  this  innocent  remark 
that  served  to  focus  the  change  in  her  he  had  been  aware 
of  vaguely  for  a  long  time.  She  was  more  worldly  here, 
the  ordinary  "woman"  in  her  was  more  in  evidence :  and 
while  he  rather  liked  it — it  brought  her  more  within  his 
reach,  as  it  were,  yet  without  lowering  her — he  felt  also 
puzzled.  Several  times  of  late  he  had  surprised  this 


192  The  Wave 

wholesome  sign  of  sex  in  things  she  said  and  did,  as 
though  the  woman-side,  as  he  called  it,  was  touched  into 
activity  at  last.  It  added  to  her  charm ;  ai  the  same  time 
it  increased  his  burning  desire  to  possess  her  absolutely 
for  himself.  What  he  felt  as  the  impersonal — almost 
spiritually  elusive — aspect  of  her  he  had  first  known,  was 
certainly  less  in  evidence.  Another  part  of  her  was  ris- 
ing into  view,  if  not  already  in  the  ascendant.  The  burn- 
ing sun,  the  sensuous  color  and  beauty  of  the  Egyptian 
climate,  he  had  heard,  could  have  this  physiological  effect. 
He  wondered. 

"Sybil  has  been  waiting  for  him  to  ask  her  ever  since 
I  came  out,"  he  heard  her  saying  with  a  gesture  almost  of 
impatience.  "Only  he  thinks  he  oughtn't  to  speak  because 
he's  poor.  The  result  is  she's  getting  bolder  in  propor- 
tion as  he  gets  more  shy." 

They  all  laughingly  agreed  to  help  matters  to  a  climax 
when  Tom,  looking  up  suddenly,  saw  Madame  Jaretzka 
smiling  at  his  cousin  with  her  eyelids  half  closed  in  the 
way  he  once  disliked  but  now  adored.  He  wondered 
suddenly  how  much  Tony  liked  her;  the  improvement  in 
him  was  assuredly  due  to  her,  he  felt ;  Tony  had  less  and 
less  time  now  for  his  other  friends.  It  occurred  to  him 
for  a  second  that  the  change  in  her  was  greater  than  he 
quite  knew,  perhaps.  He  watched  them  together  for 
some  moments.  It  gave  him  a  proud  sense  of  pleasure 
to  feel  that  her  influence  was  making  a  man  out  of  the 
medley  of  talent  and  irresponsibility  that  was  Tony.  Tony 
was  learning  at  last  to  "find  himself."  It  must  be  quite 
a  new  experience  for  him  to  know  and  like  a  woman 
of  her  sort,  almost  a  discovery.  But  with  a  flash — too 
swift  and  fleeting  to  be  a  definite  thought — Tom  was  con- 
scious of  another  thing  as  well — and  for  the  first  time: 
"How  she  would  put  him  in  his  place  if  he  attempted  any 
liberties  with  her!" 

The  same  second  he  was  ashamed  that  such  a  notion 
could  ever  have  occurred  to  him:  it  was  mean  towards 


The  Wave  193 

Tony,  ungenerous  towards  her;  and  yet — he  was  aware 
of  a  distinct  emotion,  a  touch  of  personal  triumph  in  it 
somewhere.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  sudden  tumult; 
there  was  a  scurry ;  Tony  flung  a  stone,  Madame  Jaretzka 
leaped  upon  a  boulder,  gathering  her  skirts  together  hur- 
riedly, with  a  little  scream.  "Kill  it,  Tony !  Quick !"  he 
heard  her  cry.  And  he  saw  then  a  very  large  and  hairy 
spider  crawling  swiftly  across  the  white  paper  that  had 
wrapped  their  fruit  and  sandwiches,  an  ugly  and  dis- 
tressing sight.  "It's  a  tarantula,"  she  screamed,  half 
laughing,  half  alarmed,  showing  neat  ankles  as  she  bal- 
anced precariously  upon  her  boulder,  "and  it's  coming  at 
me.  Quick,  Tony,  another  stone,"  as  he  missed  it  for  the 
second  time,  "it's  making  for  me!  Oh,  kill  it,  kill  it!" 
Tony,  still  aiming  badly,  assured  her  it  was  not  a  taran- 
tula, nor  poisonous  even ;  he  knew  the  species  well.  "It's 
quite  harmless,"  he  cried,  "there's  no  need  to  kill  it.  It's 

not  in  a  house "  and  he  flung  another  useless  stone 

at  it. 

What  followed  happened  very  quickly,  in  a  second  or 
two  at  most.  Tom  saw  it  with  sharp  surprise,  a  curious 
distaste,  almost  with  a  shudder.  It  certainly  astonished 
him,  and  in  another  sense  it  shocked  him.  He  had  done 
nothing  himself  because  Lettice,  he  thought,  was  half  in 
fun,  making  a  diversion  out  of  nothing.  Only  much  later 
did  it  occur  to  him  that  she  had  turned  instinctively  to 
Tony  for  protection,  rather  than  to  himself.  What  caused 
him  the  unpleasant  sensation,  however,  was  that  she  de- 
liberately stepped  down  from  her  perch  of  safety  and 
kicked  at  the  advancing  horror.  Probably  her  intention 
was  merely  to  drive  it  away — she  was  certainly  excited — 
but  the  result  was  that  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  creature 
and  crushed  its  life  out  with  an  instant's  pressure  of  her 
dainty  boot.  "There !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean 
to  kill  it  I  How  frightful  of  me !" 

He  heard  Tony  say,  "Bravo,  you  are  a  brave  woman ! 


194  The  Wave 

Such  creatures  have  no  right  to  live !"  as  he  hid  the  dis- 
figured piece  of  paper  beneath  some  stones  .  .  .  and, 
after  a  few  minutes*  chatter,  the  donkey-boys  had  packed 
up  the  luncheon  things  and  they  were  all  on  their  way  to- 
wards the  next  object  of  their  expedition,  as  though  noth- 
ing had  happened.  The  entire  incident  had  occupied  a 
moment  and  a  half  at  most.  Madame  Jaretzka  was  laugh- 
ing and  talking  as  before,  gay  as  a  child  and  pretty  as  a 
dream. 

In  Tom's  mind,  however,  it  went  on  happening — over 
and  over  again.  He  could  not  at  once  clean  his  mind 
of  a  disagreeable  impression  that  remained.  Another 
woman,  any  woman  for  that  matter,  might  have  done 
what  she  did  without  leaving  a  trace  in  him  of  anything 
but  a  certain  admiration.  It  was  a  perfectly  natural 
thing.  The  creature  probably  was  poisonous  as  well  as 
hideous;  Tony  merely  said  the  contrary  to  calm  her; 
moreover,  he  gave  no  help,  and  the  insect  was  certainly 
making  hurriedly  towards  her — she  had  to  save  and  pro- 
tect herself.  There  was  nothing  in  the  incident  beyond 
an  ugliness,  a  passing  second  of  distress ;  and  yet — this 
was  what  remained  with  him — it  was  not  a  natural  thing 
for  "Lettice"  to  have  done.  Her  intention,  no  doubt,  was 
otherwise;  there  was  miscalculation  as  well.  She  had 
only  meant  to  frighten  the  scurrying  creature.  Yet  at  the 
same  time  the  instinctive  act  issued,  he  felt,  from  another 
aspect,  another  part  of  her,  a  part  that  in  London,  in 
Montreux,  lay  unexpressed  and  unawakened.  And  it  is- 
sued deliberately  too.  The  exquisite  tenderness  that 
could  not  have  put  a  fly  to  death  was  less  in  her.  Egypt 
had  changed  her  oddly.  He  was  aware  of  something  that 
made  him  shrink,  though  he  did  not  use  the  phrase  even 
to  himself  in  thought;  or  something  hard  and  almost 
cruel,  though  both  adjectives  lay  far  from  clothing  the 
faint  sensation  in  his  mind  with  definite  words. 

Tom  watched  her  instinctively  from  that  moment,  un- 
consciously, that  is ;  less  with  his  eyes  than  with  a  little 


The  Wave  195 

pair  of  glasses  in  his  heart.  There  was  certainly  a  change 
in  her  that  he  could  not  quite  account  for;  the  notion 
came  to  him  once  or  twice  that  some  influence  was  upon 
her,  some  power  that  was  outside  herself,  modifying  the 
sharp  outlines  of  her  first  peculiar  tenderness.  These 
dear  outlines  blurred  a  trifle  in  the  fierce  sunlight  of  this 
desert  air.  He  knew  not  how  to  express  it  even  to  him- 
self, for  it  was  too  tenuous  to  seize  in  actual  words. 

He  arrived  at  this  partial  conclusion  anyhow :  that  he 
was  aware  of  what  he  called  the  "woman"  in  her,  but 
a  very  human  woman — a  certain  wilfulness  that  was  half 
wildness  in  it.  There  was  a  hint  of  the  earthly,  too,  as 
opposed  to  spiritual,  though  in  a  sense  that  was  whole- 
some, good,  entirely  right.  Yet  it  was  rather,  perhaps, 
primitive  than  earthly  in  any  vulgar  meaning.  ...  It 
had  been  absent  or  dormant  hitherto.  She  needed  it; 
something — was  it  Egypt?  Was  it  sex? — had  stirred  it 
into  life.  And  its  first  expression — surprising  herself  as 
much  as  it  surprised  him — had  an  aspect  of  exaggeration 
almost. 

The  way  she  raced  their  donkeys  in  her  sand-cart  on 
the  way  home,  by  no  means  sparing  the  whip,  was  ex- 
tremely human,  but  unless  he  had  witnessed  it  he  could 
never  have  pictured  it  as  possible — so  utterly  unlike  the 
gentle,  gracious,  almost  fastidious  being  he  had  known 
first.  There  was  a  hint  of  a  darker,  stronger  color  in  the 
pattern  of  her  being  now,  partly  of  careless  and  abundant 
spirits,  partly  of  this  new  primitive  savagery.  He  noticed 
it  more  and  more,  it  was  both  repellant  and  curiously  at- 
tractive; yet,  while  he  adored  it  in  her,  he  also  shrank. 
He  detected  a  touch  even  of  barbaric  vanity,  and  this  sin- 
gular touch  of  the  barbaric  veiled  the  tenderness.  He 
almost  felt  in  her  the  power  to  inflict  pain  without  flinch- 
ing— upon  another.  .  .  . 

The  following  day  their  time  of  gaiety  was  to  end, 
awaiting  only  his  return  later  from  Assouan.  Tony  was 
going  down  to  Cairo  with  some  other  friends ;  Tom  would 


196  The  Wave 

be  away  at  least  a  week,  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  his 
cousin  to  come  with  him  instead,  but  Tony  had  given  his 
word,  and  could  not  change.  Moreover,  he  was  dining 
with  his  friends  that  very  night  and  must  hurry  off  at 
once.  He  said  his  good-bys  and  went. 

"We're  very  rarely  alone  now,  are  we,  Lettice?"  Tom 
began  abruptly  the  instant  they  were  together.  At  the 
back  of  his  mind  rose  something  he  did  not  understand 
that  forced  more  significance  into  his  tone  than  he  in- 
tended. He  felt  very  full — an  accumulation  that  must 
have  expression.  He  blurted  it  out  without  reflection. 
"Hardly  once  since  I  arrived  two  weeks  ago,  now  I  come 
to  think  of  it."  He  looked  at  her  half  playfully,  half 
reproachfully.  "We're  always  three,"  he  added  with  the 
frank  pathos  of  a  boy.  And  while  one  part  of  him  felt 
ashamed,  another  part  urged  him  onward  and  was  glad. 

But  the  way  she  answered  startled  him. 

"Tom  dear,  don't  scold  me  now.  I  am  so  tired."  It 
was  the  tone  that  took  his  breath  away.  For  the  first 
time  in  their  acquaintance  he  noticed  something  like  ex- 
asperation. "I've  been  doing  too  much,"  she  went  on 
more  gently,  smiling  up  into  his  face:  "I  feel  it.  And 
that  dreadful  thing — that  insect—"  she  shuddered  a  lit- 
tle— "I  never  meant  to  hurt  it.  It's  upset  me.  All  this 
daily  excitement  and  the  sun,  and  the  jolting  of  that 
rickety  sand-cart — there,  Tom,  come  and  sit  beside  me  a 
moment  and  let's  talk  before  you  go.  I'm  really  too  done 
up  to  drive  you  to  the  station  to-night.  You'll  under- 
stand and  forgive  me,  won't  you?"  Her  voice  was  very 
soft.  She  was  excited,  too,  talking  at  random  rather. 
Her  being  seemed  confused. 

He  took  his  place  on  a  sturdy  cushion  at  her  feet,  full 
of  an  exaggerated  remorse.  She  looked  pale,  though  her 
eyes  were  very  sparkling.  His  heart  condemned  him. 
He  said  nothing  about  the  "dreadful  incident." 

"Lettice,  dearest  girl,  I  didn't  mean  anything.  You 
have  been  doing  far  too  much,  and  it's  my  fault ;  you've 


The  Wave  197 

done  it  all  for  me — to  give  me  pleasure.  It's  been  too 
wonderful."  He  took  her  hand,  while  her  other  stroked 
his  head.  "You  must  rest  while  I'm  away." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "so  as  to  be  quite  fresh  when 
you  come  back.  You  won't  be  very  long,  will  you  ?"  He 
said  he  would  risk  his  whole  career  to  get  back  within 
the  week.  "But,  you  know,  I  have  neglected  things  rather 
—up  there."  He  smiled  fondly  as  he  said  "up  there." 
She  looked  down  tenderly  into  his  eyes.  "And  I  have  neg- 
lected you — down  here,"  she  said.  "That's  what  you 
mean,  boy,  isn't  it  ?"  And  for  the  first  time  he  did  not  like 
the  old  mode  of  address  he  once  thought  perfect.  There 
seemed  a  flavor  of  pity  in  it.  "It  would  be  nice  to  be 
alone  sometimes,  wouldn't  it,  Lettice?  Quite  alone,  I 
mean,"  he  said  with  meaning. 

"We  shall  be,  we  will  be — later,  Tom,"  she  whispered ; 
"quite  alone  together."  She  paused,  then  added  louder, 
"the  truth  is,  Egypt — the  air  and  climate — stimulates  me 
too  much ;  it  makes  me  restless.  It  excites  me  in  a  way 
I  can't  quite  understand.  I  can't  sit  still  and  talk  and  be 
idle  as  one  does  in  sleepy,  solemn  England." 

He  was  explaining  with  laborious  logic  that  it  was  the 
dryness  of  the  air  that  exhausted  the  nerves  a  bit,  when 
she  straightened  herself  up  and  took  her  hand  away. 
"Oh,  yes,  Tom,  I  know,  I  know.  That's  perfectly  true, 
and  everybody  says  that — I  mean,  everybody  feels  it, 
don't  they?"  She  said  it  quickly,  almost  impatiently. 

The  old  uneasiness  flashed  through  him  at  that  mo- 
ment :  it  occurred  to  him,  "I'm  dull,  I'm  boring  her."  She 
was  over-tired,  he  remembered  then,  her  nerves  on  edge 
a  trifle;  it  was  natural  enough;  he  would  just  kiss  her 
and  leave  her  to  rest  quietly.  Yet  a  tiny  sense  of  resent- 
ment, even  of  chill  crept  over  him.  This  impatience  in 
her  was  new  to  him.  He  wondered  an  instant,  then 
crushed  back  the  words  that  tried  to  rise.  He  said  good- 
by,  taking  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment  with  an  over- 
mastering impulse  he  could  not  check.  Deep  love  and 


i98  The  Wave 

tenderness  were  in  his  heart  and  eyes.  He  yearned  to 
protect  and  guide  her — keep  her  safe  from  harm.  He 
felt  his  older  years,  his  steadier  strength ;  he  was  a  man, 
she  but  a  little,  gentle  woman.  And  the  elemental  powers 
of  life  were  very  strong.  With  a  sudden  impulsive  ges- 
ture, then,  that  surprised  him,  she  returned  the  embrace 
with  a  kind  of  vehemence,  pressing  him  closely  to  her 
heart  and  kissing  him  repeatedly  on  the  cheeks  and  eyes. 

Tom  had  expected  her  to  resist  and  chide  him.  He 
was  bewildered  and  delighted;  he  was  also  puzzled — for 
the  first  second  only.  "You  darling  woman,"  he  cried, 
forgetting  utterly  the  suspicion,  the  uneasiness,  the  pass- 
ing cold  of  a  moment  before.  He  marveled  that  his 
heart  could  have  let  such  fancies  come  to  birth.  Surely 
he  had  changed  for  such  a  thing  to  be  possible  at  all! 
.  .  .  Various  impulses  and  emotions  that  clamored  in 
him  he  kept  back  with  an  effort.  He  was  aware  of  clash- 
ing contradictions.  Confidence  was  less  in  him.  He  felt 
curiously  unsure  of  himself — also,  in  a  cruel,  subtle  way 
— of  her.  There  was  a  new  thing  in  her — rising.  Was  it 
against  himself  somewhere  ?  The  tangle  in  his  heart  and 
mind  seemed  inextricable :  he  wanted  to  seize  her  and 
carry  her  away,  struggling  but  captured,  and  at  the  same 
time — singular  contradiction — to  entreat  her  humbly, 
though  passionately,  to  love  him  more,  and  to  show  more 
that  she  loved  him.  Surely  there  were  two  selves  in  him. 

He  moved  over  to  the  door.  "Cataract  Hotel,  remem- 
ber, finds  me."  He  stood  still,  looking  back  at  her. 

She  smiled,  repeating  the  words  after  him.  "And  Let- 
tice,  you  will  write?"  She  blew  a  kiss  to  him  by  way  of 
answer.  Then,  charged  to  the  brim  with  a  thousand 
things  he  ached  to  say,  yet  would  not,  almost  dared  not 
say,  he  added  playfully — a  child  must  have  noticed  that 
his  voice  was  too  deep  for  banter  and  his  breath  came 
oddly : 

"And  mind  you  don't  let  Tony  lose  his  head  too  much. 
He's  pretty  far  gone,  you  know,  already." 


The  Wave  199 

The  same  instant  he  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  off  to 
recall  the  words.  Somewhere  he  had  been  untrue  to  him- 
self, almost  betrayed  himself. 

She  rose  suddenly  from  her  sofa  and  came  quickly  to- 
wards him  across  the  floor;  he  felt  his  heart  sink  a  mo- 
ment, then  start  hammering  irregularly  against  his  ribs. 
Something  frightened  him.  For  he  caught  in  her  face 
an  expression  he  could  not  understand — the  struggle  of 
many  strong  emotions — anxiety  and  passion,  fear  and 
love;  the  eyes  were  shining,  though  the  lids  remained 
half  closed;  she  made  a  curious  gesture:  she  moved 
swiftly.  He  braced  himself  as  against  attack.  He 
shrank.  Her  power  over  him  was  greater  than  he  knew. 

For  he  saw  her  in  that  instant  as  another  person,  an- 
other woman,  foreign — almost  eastern ;  the  barbaric  prim- 
itive thing  flamed  out  of  her,  but  with  something  regal, 
queenly,  added  to  it;  she  looked  Egyptian;  the  Princess, 
as  he  called  her  sometimes,  had  come  to  life.  And  the 
same  moment  in  himself  this  curious  sense  of  helplessness 
appeared — he  raged  against  it  inwardly — as  though  he 
were  in  her  power  somehow,  as  though  her  little  foot 
could  crush  him — too — into  the  yellow  sand.  .  .  . 

A  spasm  of  acute  and  aching  pain  shot  through  him :  he 
winced;  he  wanted  to  turn  and  fly,  yet  was  held  rooted 
to  the  floor.  He  could  not  escape.  It  had  to  be.  For 
oddly,  mysteriously,  he  felt  pain  in  her  quick  approach : 
she  was  coming  to  do  him  injury  and  hurt.  The  incident 
of  the  afternoon  flashed  again  upon  his  mind — with  the 
idea  of  cruelty  in  it  somewhere,  but  a  deep  surge  of 
strange  emotion  that  flung  wild  sentences  into  his  mind 
at  the  same  instant.  He  tightly  shut  his  lips,  lest  a  hun- 
dred thoughts  that  had  lain  in  him  of  late  might  burst  into 
words  he  would  later  regret  intensely.  He  must  not 
avoid,  delay  an  inevitable  thing.  To  resist  was  somehow 
to  be  untrue  to  the  deepest  in  him — to  something  painful 
he  deserved,  and,  paradoxically,  desired  too.  What  could 


200  The  Wave 

it  all  mean  ?  .  .  .  He  shivered  as  he  waited — watching  her 
come  nearer. 

She  reached  his  side  and  her  arms  were  stretched  to- 
wards him.  To  his  amazement,  she  folded  him  in  closely 
against  her  breast  and  held  him  as  though  she  never 
could  let  him  go  again.  He  stood -there  helpless;  the  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  took  his  strength  away.  He  heard  her 
breathless,  yearning  whisper  as  she  kissed  him:  "My 
Tom,  my  precious  boy,  I  couldn't  see  a  hair  of  your  dear 
head  injured — I  couldn't  see  you  hurt!  Take  care  of 
yourself  and  come  back  quickly — do,  do  take  care  of  your- 
self. I  shall  count  the  days "  she  broke  off,  held  his 

face  between  her  hands,  gazed  into  his  astonished  eyes, 
and  kissed  him  with  the  utmost  tenderness  again,  the  ten- 
derness of  a  mother  who  is  forced  to  be  separated  from 
the  boy  she  loves  better  than  herself. 

Tom  stood  there  trembling  before  her,  and  no  speech 
came  to  help  him.  The  thing  passed  like  a  dream:  the 
dread,  the  emotion  left  him;  the  nightmare  touch  was 
gone.  Her  self-betrayal  his  simple  nature  did  not  at  once 
discern.  He  felt  only  her  divine  tenderness  pour  over 
him.  A  spring  of  joy  rose  bubbling  in  him  that  no  words 
could  tell.  Also  he  felt  afraid.  But  the  fear  was  no 
longer  for  himself.  In  some  perplexing,  singular  way,  he 
felt  afraid  for  her. 

Then,  as  a  sentence  came  struggling  to  his  lips,  a 
step  was  heard  upon  the  landing.  There  was  time  to  re- 
sume conventional  attitudes  of  good-by  when  Mrs. 
Haughstone  appeared  on  the  staircase  leading  to  the  hall. 
Tom  said  his  farewells  hurriedly  to  both  of  them,  making 
his  escape  as  naturally  as  possible.  "I've  just  time  to 
pack  and  catch  the  train,"  he  shouted,  and  was  gone. 

And  what  remained  with  him  afterwards  of  the  curious 
little  scene  was  the  absolute  joy  and  confidence  those  last 
tender  embraces  had  restored  to  him,  side  by  side  with 
another  thing  that  he  was  equally  sure  about,  yet  refused 
to  dwell  upon  because  he  dared  not — yet.  For,  as  she 


The  Wave  201 

came  across  the  floor  of  the  sunny  room  towards  him,  he 
realized  two  things  in  her,  two  persons  almost.  Another 
influence,  he  was  convinced,  worked  in  her  strangely — 
some  older,  long-buried  presentment  of  her  interpenetrat- 
ing, even  piercing  through,  the  modern  self.  She  was  di- 
vided against  herself  in  some  extraordinary  fashion,  one 
half  struggling  fiercely,  yet  struggling  bravely,  honestly, 
against  the  other.  And  the  relationship  between  himself 
and  her,  though  the  evidence  was  so  negligibly  slight  as 
yet,  he  knew  had  definitely  changed.  .  .  . 

It  came  to  him  as  the  Mother  and  the  Woman  in  her. 
The  Mother  belonged  unchangeably  to  him :  the  Woman, 
he  felt,  was  troubled,  tempted,  and  afraid. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  FTERWARDS,  months,  years  afterwards,  looking 
jL\  back  upon  these  strange  weeks  of  his  brief  Egyptian 
winter,  Tom  marveled  at  himself;  he  looked  back,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  another  man  he 
could  not  recognize.  This  illusion  involved  his  two  com- 
panions also,  Madame  Jaretzka  supremely,  Tony  slightly 
less,  all  three,  however,  together  affected,  all  three 
changed. 

As  regards  himself,  however,  there  was  always  a  part, 
it  seemed,  that  remained  unaffected.  It  looked  on,  it  com- 
pared, it  judged.  He  called  it  the  Onlooker.  .  .  . 

Explanation  lay  beyond  his  reach ;  he  termed  it  enchant- 
ment :  and  there  he  left  it  Insight  seemed  only  to  oper- 
ate with  regard  to  himself :  of  their  feelings,  thoughts,  or 
point  of  view  he  was  uninformed.  They  offered  no  ex- 
planations, and  he  sought  none.  .  .  .  The  man  honest 
with  himself  is  more  rare  than  a  January  swallow.  He 
alone  is  honest  who  can  state  a  case  without  that  bias  of 
exaggeration  favorable  to  himself  which  is  almost  lying. 
Try  as  he  may,  his  statement  leans  one  way  or  the  other. 
The  spirit-level  of  absolute  honesty  is  hard  to  find,  and, 
of  course,  Tom  was  no  exception.  .  .  .  Occasionally  he 
recalled  the  "spiral  theory,"  which  once,  at  least,  had  been 
in  the  minds  of  all  three — the  notion  that  their  three  souls 
lived  over  a  former  episode  together,  but  from  a  higher 
point,  and  with  the  bird's-eye  view  which  brought  in  un- 
derstanding. But  if  this  offered  a  hint  of  that  winter's 
inner  spiritual  structure,  Tom  certainly  did  not  claim  it  as 
a  true  solution.  The  whole  thing  began  so  stealthily,  and 
progressed  so  slowly  yet  so  surely.  .  .  . 

He  could  only  marvel  at  himself :  he  was  so  singularly 

202 


The  Wave  203 

changed — imagination  so  active,  judgment  alternately  so 
positive  and  so  faltering,  every  emotion  so  amazingly  in- 
tensified. All  the  weakest  and  least  admirable  in  him, 
the  very  dregs,  seemed  dragged  up  side  by  side  with  what 
was  noblest,  highest,  and  flung  together  in  the  rush  and 
smother  of  the  breaking  Wave. 

Events,  in  the  dramatic  meaning  of  the  word,  and  out- 
wardly, there  were  few  perhaps,  and  those  few  meager 
and  unsensational.  No  one  was  shot  or  drowned,  no  one 
was  hanged  and  quartered :  the  police  were  not  called 
in ;  to  outsiders  there  seemed  no  air  or  attitude  of  drama 
anywhere ;  but  in  three  human  hearts,  thrown  together  as 
by  chance  currents  of  normal  life,  there  came  to  pass 
changes  of  a  spiritual  kind,  conflict  between  essential, 
primitive  forces  of  the  soul,  battlings,  temptings,  aspira- 
tions, sacrifice,  that  are  the  truest  drama  always,  because 
the  inmost  being,  whether  glorified  or  degraded,  is  there- 
by— changed. 

In  this  fierce  intensification  of  his  own  being,  and  in  the 
events  experienced,  Tom  recognized  the  rising  of  his 
childhood  Wave  towards  the  breaking  point.  The  early 
premonition  that  had  seemed  causeless  to  his  learned  fa- 
ther, that  stirred  in  his  mother  the  deep  instinct  to  pro- 
tect, and  that  ever,  more  or  less,  hung  poised  above  the 
horizon  of  his  passing  years,  had  its  origin  in  the  bed-rock 
of  his  nature.  It  was  associated  with  memory  and  in- 
stinct ;  the  native  tendencies  and  forces  of  his  being  had 
dramatized  their  inevitable  fulfilment  in  a  dream.  He 
recognized  intuitively  what  was  coming — and  he  wel- 
comed it.  The  body  shrank  from  pain ;  the  soul  held  out 
her  hands  to  it.  ... 

Thus,  looking  back,  he  saw  it  mapped  below  him  from 
a  higher  curve  in  life's  ascending  spiral.  In  the  glare 
of  a  drenching  sunshine  that  seemed  hauntingly  familiar, 
in  the  stupendous  blaze  of  Egypt  that  knew  and  favored 
it,  the  action  lay  spread  out :  but  in  darkness,  too,  an  op- 
pressive, suffocating  darkness  as  of  the  grave,  as  of  the 


204  The  Wave 

bottom  of  the  sea.  The  map  was  streaked  with  this  al- 
ternate light  and  gloom  of  elemental  kind.  It  passed 
swiftly,  he  went  swiftly  with  it.  A  few  short  crowded 
weeks  of  the  intensest  pain  and  happiness  he  had  ever 
known, — and  the  Wave,  its  crest  reflected  in  its  origin, 
fell  with  a  drowning  crash.  He  merged  into  his  back- 
ground, yet  he  did  not  drown :  in  due  course  he  again — 
emerged. 

The  sense  of  rushing  that  accompanied  it  all  was  in 
himself  apparently:  heightened  by  the  contrast  of  the 
divine  stillness  which  is  Egypt — the  golden,  hanging  days, 
the  nights  of  cool,  soft  moonlight,  the  sighing  winds  with 
perfume  in  their  breath,  the  mournful  palms  that  fringed 
the  peaceful  river,  the  calm  of  multitudinous  stars.  The 
grim  Theban  hills  looked  on ;  the  ruined  Temples  watched 
and  knew ;  there  were  listening  ears  within  a  thousand 
tombs.  .  .  .  And  there  was  the  Desert — the  endless  emp- 
tiness where  everything  had  already  happened,  the  place 
where,  therefore,  everything  could  happen  again  without 
affronting  time  and  space — the  Desert  seemed  the  infinite 
background  whence  the  Wave  tossed  up  three  little  specks 
of  passionate  human  action  and  reaction.  It  was  the 
"sea,"  a  sea  of  dust.  Yet  out  of  the  dust  wild  roses  blos- 
somed eventually  with  a  sweetness  of  beauty  unknown  to 
any  cultivated  gardens.  .  .  . 

And  while  he  and  his  two  companions  made  their  moves 
upon  this  ancient  chessboard  of  half-forgotten,  half- 
remembered  life,  all  natural  things  as  well  seemed  raised 
to  their  most  significant  expression,  sharing  the  joy  and 
sadness,  the  beauty  and  the  terror  of  his  own  experience. 
For  the  very  scenery  borrowed  of  his  intensity,  the  fa- 
miliar details  urged  a  fraction  beyond  the  normal,  as 
though  any  moment  they  must  break  down  into  their  ele- 
mental and  essential  nakedness.  The  pungent  odor  of 
the  universal  sand,  the  dust,  the  minute  golden  particles 
suspended  in  the  flaming  air,  the  marvelous  dawns  and 
sunsets,  the  mighty,  awful  pylons  and  the  heat — all  these 


The  Wave  205 

contributed  their  quota  of  wonder  and  mystery  to  what 
happened.    Egypt  inspired  it,  and  was  satisfied. 

The  sediment  of  his  nature  was  drawn  up,  the  rubbish 
floated  before  his  eyes,  he  saw  himself  through  the  cur- 
tains of  suspended  dust — until  the  flood,  retiring,  left 
him  high  upon  the  shore,  no  longer  shuffling  with  his 
earthly,  physical  feet. 

In  the  train  to  Assouan,  Tom  still  felt  the  clinging  arms 
about  his  neck,  still  heard  the  loving  voice,  eager  with 
tenderness  for  his  welfare  and  his  quick  return.  She 
needed  him:  he  was  everything  to  her.  He  knew  it,  oh 
he  was  sure  of  it.  He  thought  of  his  work,  and  knew 
some  slight  anxiety  that  he  had  neglected  it.  He  would 
devote  all  his  energies  to  the  interests  of  his  firm:  there 
should  be  no  shirking  anywhere;  his  ten  days'  holiday 
was  over.  His  mind  fixed  itself  deliberately,  though  not 
too  easily,  on  this  alone. 

He  knew  his  own  capacity,  however,  and  that  by  con- 
centration he  could  accomplish  in  a  short  time  what  other 
men  might  ask  weeks  to  complete.  Provided  all  was  go- 
ing well,  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  could  not  be  free  again 
in  a  week  at  most.  He  knew  quite  well  his  value  to  the 
firm,  but  he  knew  also  that  he  must  continue  to  justify  it. 
He  was  complacent,  but,  he  'hoped,  not  carelessly  compla- 
cent. Tom  felt  very  sure  of  himself  again. 

To  his  great  relief  he  found  things  running  smoothly. 
He  examined  every  detail,  interviewed  all  and  sundry, 
supervised,  decided,  gave  instructions.  There  was  a  let- 
ter from  the  London  office  conveying  the  formal  satisfac- 
tion of  the  Board  with  results  so  far,  praising  especially 
certain  reductions  in  cost  he  had  judiciously  effected ;  an- 
other private  letter  from  the  older  partner,  referred  con- 
fidently to  greater  profits  than  they  had  dared  to  antici- 
pate; also  there  was  a  brief  note  from  Sir  William,  the 
Chairman,  now  at  Salonica,  saying  he  might  run  over 


206  The  Wave 

a  little  later  and  see  for  himself  how  the  work  was  get- 
ting along. 

Tom  was  supremely  happy  with  it  all.  There  was  really 
very  little  for  him  to  do ;  his  engineers  were  highly  com- 
petent: they  could  summon  him  at  a  day's  notice  from 
Luxor  if  anything  went  wrong.  "But  there's  no  sign  of 
difficulty,  sir,"  was  their  verdict;  "everything's  going 
like  clockwork;  the  men  working  splendidly:  it's  only  a 
matter  of  time." 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day  that  Tom  decided 
to  go  back  to  Luxor.  He  was  eager  for  the  promised 
bivouac  they  had  arranged  together.  He  had  written  once 
to  say  that  all  was  well,  but  no  word  had  yet  come  from 
her;  she  was  resting,  he  was  glad  to  think:  Tony  was 
away  at  Cairo  with  his  friends;  there  might  be  a  letter 
for  him  in  the  morning,  but  that  could  be  sent  after  him. 
Joy  and  impatience  urged  him.  He  chuckled  happily  over 
his  boyish  plan ;  he  would  not  announce  himself ;  he  would 
surprise  her.  He  caught  a  train  that  would  get  him  in  for 
dinner. 

And  during  his  journey  of  six  hours,  he  rehearsed  this 
pleasure  of  surprising  her.  She  was  lonely  without  him. 
He  visualized  her  delight  and  happiness.  He  would  creep 
up  to  the  window,  to  the  edge  of  the  verandah  where  she 
sat  reading,  Mrs.  Haughstone  knitting  in  a  chair  opposite. 
He  would  call  her  name  "Lettice.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  would 
lighten,  her  manner  change.  That  new  spontaneous  joy 
would  show  itself.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  setting  when  the  train  got  in,  but  by  the 
time  he  had  changed  into  flannels  at  his  hotel  the  short 
dusk  was  falling.  The  entire  western  sky  was  gold  and 
crimson,  the  air  was  sharp,  the  light  dry  desert  wind  blew 
shrewdly  down  the  street.  Behind  the  eastern  hills  rose 
a  huge  full  moon,  still  pale  with  daylight,  peering  wisely 
over  the  enormous  spread  of  luminous  desert  .  .  .  He 
drove  to  her  house,  leaving  the  arabyieh  at  the  gates.  He 


The  Wave  207 

walked  quickly  up  the  drive.  The  heavy  foliage  covered 
him  with  shadows,  and  he  easily  reached  the  verandah  un- 
observed: no  one  seemed  about;  there  was  no  sound  of 
voices :  the  thick  creepers  up  the  wooden  pillars  screened 
him  admirably.  There  was  a  movement  of  a  chair,  his 
heart  began  to  thump,  he  climbed  up  softly,  and  at  the 
other  end  of  the  verandah  saw — Mrs.  Haughstone  knit- 
ting. But  there  was  no  sign  of  Lettice — and  the  blood 
rushed  from  his  heart. 

He  had  not  been  noticed,  but  his  game  was  spoilt.  He 
came  round  to  the  front  steps  and  wished  her  politely  a 
good-evening.  Her  surprise  once  over,  and  explanations 
made,  she  asked  him,  cordially  enough,  to  stay  to  dinner. 
"Lettice,  I  know,  would  like  it.  You  must  be  tired  out. 
She  did  not  expect  you  back  so  soon ;  but  she  would  never 
forgive  me  if  I  let  you  go  after  them." 

Tom  heard  the  words  as  in  a  dream,  and  answered  also 
in  a  dream — a  dream  of  astonishment,  vexation,  disap- 
pointment, none  of  them  concealed.  His  uneasiness  re- 
turned in  an  acute,  intensified  form.  For  he  learnt  that 
they  were  bivouacking  on  the  Nile  to  see  the  sunrise. 
Tony  had,  after  all,  not  gone  to  Cairo  ;  de  Lome  and  Lady 
Sybil  accompanied  them.  It  was  the  picnic  they  had 
planned  together  against  his  return.  "Lettice  wrote," 
Mrs.  Haughstone  mentioned,  "but  the  letter  must  have 
missed  you.  I  warned  her  you'd  be  disappointed — if  you 
knew." 

"So  Tony  didn't  go  to  Cairo  after  all?"  Tom  asked 
again.  His  voice  sounded  thin,  less  volume  in  it  than 
usual.  That  "if  you  knew"  dropped  something  of  sud- 
den anguish  in  his  heart. 

"His  friends  put  him  off  at  the  last  moment — illness,  he 
said,  or  something."  Mrs.  Haughstone  repeated  the  in- 
vitation to  dine  and  make  himself  at  home.  "I'm  posi- 
tive my  cousin  would  like  you  to,"  she  added  with  a  cer- 
tain emphasis. 

Tom  thanked  her.    He  had  the  impression  there  was 


208  The  Wave 

something  on  her  mind.  "I  think  I'll  go  after  them,"  he 
repeated,  "if  you'll  tell  me  exactly  where  they've  gone." 
He  stammered  a  little.  "It  would  be  rather  a  lark,  I 
thought,  to  surprise  them."  What  foolish,  what  inade- 
quate words! 

"Just  as  you  like,  of  course.  But  I'm  sure  she's  quite 
safe/'  was  the  bland  reply.  "Mr.  Winslowe  will  look 
after  her." 

"Oh,  rather,"  replied  Tom ;  "but  it  would  be  good  fun 
— rather  a  joke,  you  know — to  creep  upon  them  una- 
wares,"— and  then  was  surprised  and  sorry  that  he  said 
it.  "Have  they  gone  very  far?"  he  asked,  fumbling  for 
his  cigarettes. 

He  learned  that  they  had  left  after  luncheon,  taking 
with  them  all  necessary  paraphernalia  for  the  night. 
There  were  feelings  in  him  that  he  could  not  understand 
quite  as  he  heard  it.  But  only  one  thing  was  clear  to  him 
— he  wished  to  be  quickly,  instantly,  where  Lettice  was. 
It  was  comprehensible.  Mrs.  Haughstone  understood  and 
helped  him.  "I'll  send  Mohammed  to  get  you  a  boatman, 
as  you  seem  quite  determined,"  she  said,  ringing  the  bell : 
"you  can  get  there  in  an  hour's  ride.  I  couldn't  go,"  she 
added,  "I  really  felt  too  tired.  Mr.  Winslowe  was  here 
for  lunch,  and  he  exhausted  us  all  with  laughing  so  that 
I  felt  I'd  had  enough.  Besides,  the  sun " 

"They  all  lunched  here  too?"  asked  Tom. 

"Mr.  Winslowe  only,"  she  mentioned,  "but  he  was  a 
host  in  himself.  It  quite  exhausted  me — " 

"Tony  can  be  frightfully  amusing,  can't  he,  when  he 
likes,"  said  Tom.  Her  repetition  of  "exhausted"  an- 
noyed him  furiously  for  some  reason. 

He  saw  her  hesitate  then :  she  began  to  speak,  but 
stopped  herself;  there  was  a  curious  expression  in  her 
face,  almost  of  anxiety,  he  fancied.  He  felt  the  kindness 
in  her.  She  was  distressed.  And  an  impulse,  whence  he 
knew  not,  rose  in  him  to  make  her  talk,  but  before  he 
could  find  a  suitable  way  of  beginning,  she  said  with  a 


The  Wave  209 

kind  of  relief  in  her  tone  and  manner :  "I'm  glad  you're 
back  again,  Mr.  Kelverdon."  She  looked  significantly  at 
him.  "Your  influence  is  so  steadying,  if  you  don't  mind 
my  saying  so."  She  gave  an  awkward  little  laugh,  half 
of  apology,  half  of  shyness,  or  of  what  passed  with  her 
for  shyness.  "This  climate — upsets  some  of  us.  It  does 
something  to  the  blood,  I'm  sure " 

"You  feel  anxious  about — anything  in  particular  ?"  Tom 
asked,  with  a  sinking  heart.  At  any  other  time  he  would 
have  laughed. 

Mrs.  Haughstone  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  sighed. 
She  spoke  with  an  effort  apparently,  as  though  doubtful 
how  much  she  ought  to  say.  "My  cousin,  after  all,  is — 
in  a  sense,  at  least — a  married  woman,"  was  the  reply, 
while  Tom  remembered  that  she  had  said  the  same  thing 
once  before.  "And  all  men  are  not  as  careful  for  her 
reputation,  perhaps,  as  you  are."  She  mentioned  the 
names  of  various  people  in  Luxor,  and  left  the  impression 
that  there  was  considerable  gossip  in  the  air.  Tom  dis- 
liked exceedingly  the  things  she  said  and  the  way  she 
said  them,  but  felt  unable  to  prevent  her.  He  was  angry 
with  himself  for  listening,  yet  felt  it  beyond  him  to 
change  the  conversation.  He  both  longed  to  hear  every 
word,  and  at  the  same  time  dreaded  it  unspeakably.  If 
only  the  boat  would  give  him  quickly  an  excuse.  .  .  . 
He  therefore  heard  her  to  the  end,  concerning  the  un- 
wisdom of  Madame  Jaretzka  in  her  careless  refusal  to 
be  more  circumspect,  even — Mrs.  Haughstone  feared — 
to  the  point  of  compromising  herself.  With  whom? 
Why,  with  Mr.  Winslowe,  of  course.  Hadn't  he  noticed 
it?  No!  Well,  of  course  there  was  no  harm  in  it,  but 
it  was  a  mistake,  she  felt,  to  be  seen  about  always  with 
the  same  man.  He  called,  too,  at  such  unusual  hours.  .  .  . 

And  each  word  she  uttered  seemed  to  Tom  exactly 
what  he  had  expected  her  to  utter,  entering  his  mind  as 
a  keenly  poisoned  shaft.  Something  already  prepared 
in  him  leaped  swiftly  to  understanding;  only  too  well  he 


•210  The  Wave 

grasped  her  meaning.  The  excitement  in  him  passed 
into  a  feverishness  that  was  painful. 

For  a  long  time  he  merely  stood  and  listened,  gazing 
across  the  river,  but  seeing  nothing.  He  said  no  word. 
His  impatience  was  difficult  to  conceal,  yet  he  concealed 
it. 

"Couldn't  you  give  her  a  hint  perhaps?"  continued 
the  other,  as  they  waited  on  the  steps  together,  watching 
the  preparations  for  the  boat  below.  She  spoke  with 
an  assumed  carelessness  that  was  really  a  disguised  em- 
phasis. "She  would  take  it  from  you,  I'm  sure.  She 
means  no  harm;  there  is  no  harm.  We  all  know  that. 
She  told  me  herself  it  was  only  a  boy  and  girl  affair. 
Still " 

"She  said  that?"  asked  Tom.  His  tone  was  calm, 
even  to  indifference,  but  his  eyes,  had  she  looked  round, 
must  certainly  have  betrayed  him.  Luckily  she  kept  her 
gaze  upon  the  moon-lit  river.  She  drew  her  knitted 
shawl  more  closely  round  her.  The  cold  air  from  the 
desert  touched  them  both.  Tom  shivered. 

"Oh,  before  you  came  out,  that  was,"  she  mentioned ; 
and  each  word  was  a  separate  stab  in  the  center  of  his 
heart.  After  a  pause  she  went  on :  "So  you  might  say 
a  little  word  to  be  more  careful,  if  you  saw  your  way. 
Mr.  Winslowe,  you  see,  is  a  poor  guide  just  now :  he  has 
so  completely  lost  his  head.  He's  very  impressionable 
— and  very  selfish — /  think." 

Tom  was  aware  that  he  braced  himself.  Various  emo- 
tions clashed  within  him.  He  knew  a  dozen  different 
pains,  all  equally  piercing.  It  angered  him,  besides,  to 
hear  Lettice  spoken  of  in  this  slighting  manner,  for  the 
inference  was  unavoidable.  But  there  hid  below  his 
anger  a  deep,  dull  bitterness  that  tried  angrily  to  raise 
its  head.  Something  very  ugly,  very  fierce  moved  with 
it.  He  crushed  it  back.  ...  A  feeling  of  hot  shame 
flamed  to  his  cheeks. 

"I  should  feel  it  an  impertinence,  Mrs.  Haughstone," 


The  Wave  211 

he  stammered  at  length,  yet  confident  that  he  concealed 
his  inner  turmoil.  "Your  cousin — I  mean,  all  that  she 
does  is  quite  beyond  reproach." 

Her  answer  staggered  him  like  a  blow  between  the 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Kelverdon — on  the  contrary.  My  cousin  doesn't 
realize  quite,  I'm  sure — that  she  may  cause  him  suffering. 
She  won't  listen  to  me,  but  you  could  do  it.  You  touch 
the  mother  in  her." 

It  was  a  merciless,  keen  shaft — these  last  six  words. 
The  sudden  truth  of  them  turned  him  into  ice.  He 
touched  only  the  mother  in  her :  the  woman — but  the 
thought  plunged  out  of  sight,  smothered  instantly  as  by 
a  granite  slab  he  set  upon  it.  The  actual  thought  was 
smothered,  yes,  but  the  feeling  struggled  horribly  for 
breath ;  and  another  inference,  more  deadly  than  the  first, 
stole  with  a  freezing  touch  upon  his  soul. 

He  turned  round  quietly  and  looked  at  his  companion. 
"By  jove,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  he  believed  was  admi- 
rably natural,  "I  believe  you're  right.  I'll  give  her  a  little 
hint, — for  Tony's  sake."  He  moved  down  the  steps. 
"Tony  is  so — I  mean  he  so  easily  loses  his  head.  It's 
quite  absurd." 

But  Mrs.  Haughstone  did  not  laugh.  "Think  it  over," 
she  rejoined.  "You  have  excellent  judgment.  You 
may  prevent  a  little  disaster."  She  smiled  and  shook  a 
warning  finger.  And  Tom,  feigning  amusement  as  best 
he  might,  murmured  something  in  agreement  and  raised 
his  helmet  with  a  playful  flourish. 

Mohammed,  soft  of  voice  and  moving  like  a  shadow, 
called  that  the  boat  was  ready,  and  Tom  prepared  to  go. 
Mrs.  Haughstone  accompanied  him  half-way  down  the 
steps. 

"You  won't  startle  them,  will  you,  Mr.  Kelverdon?" 
she  said.  "Lettice,  you  know,  is  rather  easily  fright- 
ened." And  she  laughed  a  little.  "It's  Egypt— the  dry 
air — one's  nerves " 


212  The  Wave 

Tom  was  already  in  the  boat,  where  the  Arab  stood 
waiting  in  the  moonlight  like  a  ghost. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  called  up  to  her  through  the  still 
air.  But,  none  the  less,  he  meant  to  surprise  her  if  he 
could.  Only  in  his  thought  the  pronoun  insisted,  some- 
how, on  the  plural  form. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HE  boat  swung  out  into  mid-stream.  Behind  him 
JL  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Haughstone  faded  away  against 
the  bourgainvillsea  on  the  wall;  in  front,  Mohammed's 
head  and  shoulders  merged  with  the  opposite  bank;  be- 
yond, the  spectral  palms  and  the  shadowy  fields  of  clover 
slipped  into  the  great  body  of  the  moon-fed  desert.  The 
desert  itself  sank  down  into  a  hollow  that  seemed  to 
fling  those  dark  Theban  hills  upwards — towards  the  stars. 

Everything,  as  it  were,  went  into  its  background. 
Everything,  animate  and  inanimate,  rose  out  of  a  com- 
mon ultimate — the  Sea.  Yet  for  a  moment  only.  There 
was  this  sense  of  preliminary  withdrawal  backwards,  as 
for  a  leap  that  was  to  come.  .  .  . 

He,  too,  felt  merged  with  his  own  background.  In 
his  soul  he  knew  the  trouble  and  tumult  of  the  Wave — 
gathering  for  a  surging  rise  to  follow.  .  .  . 

For  some  minutes  the  sense  of  his  own  identity  passed 
from  him,  and  he  wondered  who  he  was.  "Who  am  I  ?" 
would  have  been  a  quite  natural  question.  "Let  me  see ; 
I'm  Kelverdon,  Tom  Kelverdon."  Of  course !  Yet  he 
felt  that  he  was  another  person  too.  He  lost  his  grip 
upon  his  normal  modern  self  a  moment,  lost  hold  of  the 
steady,  confident  personality  that  was  familiar.  .  .  .  The 
voice  of  Mohammed  broke  the  singular  spell.  "Shicago, 
vair'  good  donkey.  Yis,  bes'  donkey  in  Luxor — "  and 
Tom  remembered  that  he  had  a  ride  of  an  hour  or  so 
before  he  could  reach  the  Temple  of  Deir  El-Bahri  where 
his  friends  were  bivouacking.  He  tipped  Mohammed  as 
he  landed,  mounted  "Chicago,"  and  started  off  impa- 
tiently, then  ran  against  little  Mohammed  coming  back 
for  a  forgotten — kettle !  He  laughed.  Every  third  Arab 

213 


214  The  Wave 

seemed  called  Mohammed.  But  he  learned  exactly  where 
the  party  was.  He  sent  his  own  donkey-boy  home,  and 
rode  on  alone  across  the  moon-lit  plain. 

The  wonder  of  the  exquisite  night  took  hold  of  him, 
searching  his  heart  beyond  all  power  of  language — the 
strange  Egyptian  beauty.  The  ancient  wilderness,  so 
calm  beneath  the  stars;  the  mournful  hills  that  leaped 
to  touch  the  smoking  moon;  the  perfumed  air,  the  deep 
old  river — each,  and  all  together,  exhaled  their  inner- 
most, essential  magic.  Over  every  separate  boulder  split 
the  flood  of  silver.  There  were  troops  of  shadows. 
Among  these  shadows,  beyond  the  boulders,  Isis  herself, 
it  seemed,  went  by  with  audible  footfall  on  the  sand, 
secretly  guiding  his  advance;  Horus,  dignified  and  sol- 
emn, with  hawk-wings  hovering,  and  fierce,  deathless  eyes 
— Horus,  too,  watched  him  lest  he  stumble.  .  .  . 

On  all  sides  he  seemed  aware  of  the  powerful  Egyp- 
tian gods,  their  protective  help,  their  familiar  guidance. 
The  deeps  within  him  opened.  He  had  done  this  thing 
before.  .  .  .  Even  the  little  details  brought  the  same  lost 
message  back  to  him,  as  the  hoofs  of  his  donkey  shuf- 
fled through  the  sand  or  struck  a  loose  stone  aside  with 
metallic  clatter.  He  heard  the  lizards  whistling.  .  .  . 

There  were  other  vaster  emblems  too,  quite  close.  To 
the  south,  a  little,  the  shoulders  of  the  Colossi  domed 
awfully  above  the  flat  expanse,  and  soon  he  passed  the 
Ramesseum,  the  moon  just  entering  the  stupendous  aisles. 
He  saw  the  silvery  shafts  beneath  the  huge  square  pylons. 
On  all  sides  lay  the  welter  of  prodigious  ruins,  steeped 
in  a  power  and  beauty  that  seemed  borrowed  from  the 
scale  of  the  immeasurable  heavens.  Egypt  laid  a  great 
hand  upon  him,  her  cold  wind  brushed  his  cheeks.  He 
was  aware  of  awfulness,  of  splendor,  of  all  the  immen- 
sities. He  was  in  Eternity;  life  was  continuous  through- 
out the  ages;  there  was  no  death.  .  .  . 

He  felt  huge  wings,  and  a  hawk,  disturbed  by  his  pass- 
ing, flapped  silently  away  to  another  broken  pillar  just 


The  Wave  215 

beyond.  He  seemed  swept  forward,  the  plaything  of 
greater  forces  than  he  knew.  There  was  no  question  of 
direction,  of  resistance :  the  Wave  rushed  on  and  he 
rushed  with  it.  His  normal  simplicity  disappeared  in  a 
complexity  that  bewildered  him.  Very  clear,  however, 
was  one  thing — courage;  that  courage  due  to  abandon- 
ment of  self.  He  would  face  whatever  came.  He  need- 
ed it.  It  was  inevitable.  Yes — this  time  he  would  face  it 
without  shuffling  or  disaster.  .  .  .  For  he  recognized  dis- 
aster— and  was  aware  of  blood.  .  .  . 

Questions  asked  themselves  in  long,  long  whispers,  but 
found  no  answers.  They  emerged  from  that  mothering 
background  and  returned  into  it  again.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
he  rode  alone,  but  sometimes  Lettice  rode  beside  him: 
Tony  joined  them.  ...  He  felt  them  driven  forward, 
all  three  together,  obedient  to  the  lift  of  the  same  rising 
wave,  urged  onwards  towards  a  climax  that  was  lost  to 
sight,  and  yet  familiar.  He  knew  both  joy  and  shrinking, 
a  delicious  welcome  that  it  was  going  to  happen,  yet  a 
dread  of  searing  pain  involved.  A  great  fact  lay  every- 
where about  him  in  the  night,  but  a  fact  he  could  not  seize 
completely.  All  his  faculties  settled  on  it,  but  in  vain — 
they  settled  on  a  fragment,  while  the  rest  lay  free,  beyond 
his  reach.  Pain,  which  was  a  pain  at  nothing,  filled  his 
heart ;  joy,  which  was  joy  without  a  reason,  sang  in  him. 
The  Wave  rose  higher,  higher  .  .  .  the  breath  came  with 
difficulty  .  .  .  the  wind  was  icy  ...  there  was  choking 
in  his  throat.  .  .  . 

He  noticed  the  same  high  excitement  in  him  he  had 
experienced  a  few  nights  ago  beneath  the  Karnak  pylons 
—it  ended  later,  he  remembered,  in  the  menace  of  an  un- 
utterable loneliness.  This  excitement  was  wild  with  an 
irresponsible  hilarity  that  had  no  justification.  He  felt 
exalte.  The  wave,  he  swinging  in  the  crest  of  it,  was 
going  to  break,  and  he  knew  the  awful  thrill  upon  him 
before  the  dizzy,  smothering  plunge. 

The  complex  of  emotions  made  clear  thought  impossi- 


2i6  The  Wave 

ble.  To  put  two  and  two  together  was  beyond  him.  He 
felt  the  power  that  bore  him  along  immensely  greater 
than  himself.  And  one  of  the  smaller,  self-asking  ques- 
tions issued  from  it:  "Was  this  what  she  felt?  Was 
Tony  also  feeling  this?  Were  all  three  of  them  being 
swept  along  towards  an  inevitable  climax?"  .  .  .  This 
singular  notion  that  none  of  them  could  help  themselves 
passed  into  him.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  realized  from  the  slower  pace  of  the  ani- 
mal beneath  him  that  the  path  was  going  uphill.  He 
collected  his  thoughts  and  looked  about  him.  The  for- 
bidding cliffs  that  guard  the  grim  Valley  of  the  Kings, 
the  haunted  Theban  hills,  stood  up  pale  yellow  against 
the  stars.  The  big  moon,  no  longer  smoking  in  the  earth- 
bound  haze,  had  risen  into  the  clear  dominion  of  the 
upper  sky.  And  he  saw  the  terraces  and  columns  of  the 
Deir  El-Bahri  Temple  facing  him  at  the  level  of  his  eyes. 

Nothing  bore  clearer  testimony  to  the  half-unconscious 
method  by  which  the  drama  developed  itself,  to  the  de- 
liberate yet  uncalculated  attitude  of  the  actors  towards 
some  inevitable  fulfilment,  than  the  little  scene  which 
Tom's  surprise  arrival  then  discovered.  According  to  the 
mood  of  the  beholder  it  could  mean  much  or  little,  every- 
thing or  nothing.  It  was  so  nicely  contrived  between  con- 
cealment and  disclosure,  and,  like  much  else  that  hap- 
pened, seemed  balanced  exquisitely,  if  painfully,  between 
guilt  and  innocence.  The  point  of  view  of  the  onlooker 
could  alone  decide.  At  the  same  time  it  provided  a  per- 
fect frame  for  another  picture  that  later  took  the  stage. 
The  stage  seemed  set  for  it  exactly.  The  later  picture 
broke  in  and  used  it  too.  That  is  to  say,  two  separate  pic- 
tures, distinct  yet  interfused,  occupied  the  stage  at  once. 

For  Tom,  dismounting,  and  leaving  his  animal  with 
the  donkey-boys  some  hundred  yards  away,  approached 
stealthily  over  the  sand  and  came  upon  the  picnic  group 
before  he  knew  it.  He  watched  them  a  moment  before 


The  Wave  217 

he  announced  himself.  The  scene  was  some  feet  below 
him.  He  looked  down. 

Two  minutes  sooner,  he  might  conceivably  have  found 
the  party  quite  differently  grouped.  Instead,  however, 
his  moment  of  arrival  was  exactly  timed  as  though  to 
witness  a  scene  set  cleverly  by  the  invisible  Stage  Man- 
ager to  frame  two  similar  and  yet  different  incidents. 

Tom  leaned  against  a  broken  column,  staring. 

Young  de  Lome  and  Lady  Sybil,  he  saw,  were  care- 
fully admiring  the  moonlight  on  the  yellow  cliffs.  Miss 
de  Lome  stooped  busily  over  rugs  and  basket  packages. 
Her  back  was  turned  to  Tony  and  Madame  Jaretzka,  who 
were  intimately  engaged,  their  faces  very  close  together, 
in  the  half-prosaic,  half-poetic  act  of  blowing  up  a  gipsy 
fire  of  scanty  sticks  and  crumpled  paper.  The  entire 
picture  seemed  arranged  as  though  intended  to  convey 
a  "situation."  And  to  Tom  a  situation  most  certainly 
was  conveyed  successfully,  though  a  situation  of  which 
the  two  chief  actors — who  shall  say  otherwise? — were 
possibly  unconscious.  For  in  that  first  moment  as  he 
leaned  against  the  column,  gazing  fixedly,  the  smoking 
sticks  between  them  burst  into  a  flare  of  sudden  flame, 
setting  the  two  faces  in  a  frame  of  bright  red  light,  and 
Tom,  gazing  upon  them  from  a  distance  of  perhaps  some 
twenty  yards  saw  them  clearly,  yet  somehow  did  not — 
recognize  them.  Another  picture  thrust  itself  between: 
he  watched  a  scene  that  lay  deep  below  him.  Through 
the  soft  blaze  of  that  Egyptian  moonlight,  across  the  si- 
lence of  that  pale  Egyptian  desert,  beneath  those  old 
Egyptian  stars,  there  stole  upon  him  some  magic  which 
is  deathless,  though  its  outer  covenants  have  vanished 
from  the  world.  .  .  .  Down,  down  he  sank  into  the  for- 
gotten scenes  whence  it  arose.  Smothered  in  sand,  it 
seemed,  he  heard  the  centuries  roar  past  him.  .  .  . 

He  saw  two  other  persons  kneeling  above  that  fire  on 
the  desert  floor,  two  persons  familiar  to  him,  yet  whom 
he  could  not  wholly  recognize.  In  that  amazing  second, 


218  The  Wave 

while  his  heart  stopped  beating,  it  seemed  as  if  thought 
in  anguish  cried  aloud  :  "So,  there  you  are !  I  have  the 
proof !"  while  yet  all  verification  of  the  tragic  "you"  re- 
mained just  out  of  reach  and  undisclosed. 

He  did  not  recognize  two  persons  whom  he  knew,  while 
yet  some  portion  of  him  keenly,  fiercely  searching,  dived 
back  into  the  limbo  of  unremembered  time.  ...  A  thin 
blue  smoke  rose  before  his  face,  and  to  his  nostrils  stole 
a  delicate  perfume  as  of  ambra.  It  was  a  picnic  fire  no 
longer.  It  was  an  eastern  woman  he  saw  lean 'forward 
across  the  gleam  of  a  golden  brazier  and  yield  a  kiss  to 
the  lips  of  a  man  who  claimed  it  passionately.  He  saw 
her  small  hands  folded  and  clinging  about  his  neck.  The 
face  of  the  man  he  could  not  see,  the  head  and  shoulders 
being  turned  away,  but  hers  he  saw  clearly — the  dark, 
lustrous  eyes  that  shone  between  half-closed  eyelids. 
They  were  highly  placed  in  life,  these  two,  for  their  as- 
pect as  their  garments  told  it ;  the  man,  indeed,  had  gold 
about  him  somewhere  and  the  woman,  in  her  mien,  wore 
royalty.  Yet,  though  he  but  saw  their  hands  and  heads 
alone,  he  knew  instinctively  that,  if  not  regal,  they  were 
semi-regal,  and  set  beyond  his  reach  in  power  natural  to 
them  both.  They  were  high-born,  the  favored  of  the 
world.  Inferiority  was  his  who  watched  them,  the  help- 
less inferiority  of  subordinate  position.  That,  too,  he 
knew  .  .  .  for  a  gasp  of  terror,  though  quickly  smoth- 
ered terror,  rose  vividly  behind  an  anger  that  could  gladly 
—kill. 

There  was  a  flash  of  fiery  and  intolerable  pain  within 
him.  .  .  . 

The  next  second  he  saw  merely — Lettice ! — blowing  the 
smoke  from  her  face  and  eyes,  with  an  impatient  little 
gesture  of  both  hands,  while  in  front  of  her  knelt  Tony 
— fanning  a  reluctant  fire  of  sticks  and  paper  with  his  old 
felt  hat. 

He  had  been  gazing  at  a  colored  bubble,  the  bubble  had 
burst  into  air  and  vanished,  the  entire  mood  and  picture 


The  Wave  219 

vanished  with  it — so  swiftly,  so  instantaneously,  more- 
over, that  Tom  was  ready  to  deny  the  entire  experience. 

Indeed,  he  did  deny  it.  He  refused  to  credit  it.  It 
had  been,  surely,  a  feeling  rather  than  a  sight.  But  the 
feeling  having  utterly  vanished,  he  discredited  the  sight 
as  well.  The  fiery  pain  had  vanished  too.  He  found  him- 
self watching  the  semi-comical  picture  of  de  Lome  and 
Lady  Sybil  flirting  in  dumb  action,  and  Tony  and  Let- 
tice  trying  to  make  a  fire  without  the  instinct  or  ability 
to  succeed.  And,  incontinently,  he  burst  out  laughing 
audibly. 

Yet,  apparently,  his  laughter  was  not  heard;  he  had 
made  no  actual  sound.  There  was,  instead,  a  little  scream, 
a  sudden  movement,  a  scurrying  of  feet  among  the  sand 
and  stones,  and  Lettice  and  Tony  rose  upon  one  single 
impulse,  as  once  before  he  had  seen  them  rise  in  Karnak 
weeks  ago.  They  stood  up  like  one  person.  They  looked 
about  them  into  the  surrounding  shadows,  disturbed,  af- 
flicted, yet  as  though  they  were  not  certain  they  had 
heard  .  .  .  and  then,  abruptly,  the  figure  of  Tony  went 
out  ...  it  disappeared.  How,  precisely,  was  not  clear, 
but  it  was  gone  into  the  darkness.  .  .  . 

And  another  picture — or  another  aspect  of  the  first — 
dropped  into  place.  There  was  an  outline  of  a  shadowy 
tent.  The  flap  was  stirring  lightly,  as  though  behind 
it  some  one  hid — and  watched.  He  could  not  tell.  A 
deep  confusion,  as  of  two  pictures  interfused,  was  in 
him.  For  somehow  he  transferred  his  own  self — was  it 
physical  desire?  was  it  spiritual  yearning?  was  it  love? — 
projected  his  own  self  into  the  figure  that  had  kissed  her, 
taking  her  own  passionate  kiss  in  return.  He  actually  ex- 
perienced it.  He  did  this  thing.  He  had  done  it — once  be- 
fore! Knowing  himself  beside  her,  he  both  did  it  and 
saw  himself  doing  it.  He  was  both  actor  and  on- 
looker. .  .  . 

There  poured  back  upon  him  then,  sweet  and  poignant, 
his  love  of  an  Egyptian  woman,  the  fragrance  of  remem- 


220  The  Wave 

bered  tresses,  the  perfume  of  fair  limbs  that  clung  and 
of  arms  that  lingered  round  his  neck — yet  that  in  the  last 
moment  slipped  from  his  full  possession.  He  was  on 
his  knees  before  her;  he  gazed  up  into  her  ardent  eyes, 
set  in  a  glowing  face  above  his  own ;  the  face  bent  lower ; 
he  raised  two  slender  hands,  the  fingers  henna-stained, 
and  pressed  them  to  his  lips.  He  felt  their  silken  tex- 
ture, the  fragile  pressure,  her  breath  upon  his  face — yet 
all  sharply  withdrawn  again  before  he  captured  them  com- 
pletely. There  was  the  odor  of  long-forgotten  unguents, 
sweet  with  a  tang  that  sharpened  them  towards  desire  in 
days  that  knew  a  fiercer  sunlight.  .  .  .  His  brain  went 
reeling.  The  effort  to  keep  one  picture  separate  from 
the  other  broke  them  both.  He  could  not  disentangle, 
could  not  distinguish.  They  intermingled.  He  was  both 
the  figure  hidden  behind  the  tent  and  the  figure  who  held 
the  woman  in  his  arms.  What  his  heart  desired  became, 
it  seemed,  that  which  happened.  .  •.  . 

And  then  the  flap  of  the  tent  flung  open,  and  out  rushed 
a  violent,  leaping  outline — the  figure  of  a  man.  Another 
— it  seemed  himself — rushed  to  meet  him.  There  was  a 
gleam,  a  long  deep  cry.  ...  A  woman,  with  arms  out- 
stretched, knelt  close  beside  the  struggling  figures  on  the 
sand.  He  saw  two  huge,  dark,  muscular  hands  about  a 
bent  and  yielding  neck,  blood  oozing  thickly  between  the 
gripping  fingers,  staining  them  .  .  .  then  sudden  dark- 
ness that  blacked  out  the  entire  scene,  and  a  choking 
effort  to  find  breath.  .  .  .  But  it  was  his  own  breath  that 
failed,  choked  as  by  blood  and  fire  that  broke  into  his  own 
throat.  .  .  .  Smothered  in  sand,  the  centuries  roared  past 
him,  died  away  into  the  distance,  sank  back  into  the 
interminable  desert.  .  .  .  He  found  his  voice  this  time. 
He  shouted. 

He  saw  again — Lettice,  blowing  the  smoke  from  her 
face  and  eyes  with  an  impatient  little  gesture  of  both 
hands,  while  Tony  knelt  in  front  of  her  and  fanned  a 
reluctant  fire  with  his  old  felt  hat.  The  picture — the 


The  Wave  221 

second  picture — had  been  instantaneous.  It  had  not 
lasted  a  fraction  of  a  second  even. 

He  shouted.  And  this  time  his  voice  was  audible. 
Lettice  and  Tony  stood  up,  as  though  a  single  person 
rose.  Both  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Then 
Tony  moved  off  quickly.  Tom's  vision  had  interpene- 
trated this  very  action  even  while  it  was  actually  taking 
place — the  first  time. 

"Why— I  do  declare— if  it  isn't— Tom!"  he  heard  in 
a  startled  woman's  voice. 

He  came  down  towards  her  slowly.  Something  of  the 
"pictures"  still  swam  in  between  what  was  next  said  and 
done.  It  seemed  in  the  atmosphere,  pervading  the  three 
of  them.  But  it  was  weakening,  passing  away  quickly. 
For  one  moment,  however,  before  it  passed,  it  became 
overpowering  again. 

"But,  Tom — is  this  a  joke,  or  what?  You  frightened 
me" — she  gave  a  horrid  gasp — "nearly  to  death !  You've 
come  back !" 

"It's  a  surprise,"  he  cried,  trying  to  laugh,  though  his 
lips  were  dry  and  refused  the  effort.  "I  have  surprised 
you.  I've  come  back!" 

He  heard  the  gasp  prolonged.  Breathing  seemed  diffi- 
cult. Some  deep  distress  was  in  her.  Yet,  in  place  of 
pity,  exultation  caught  him  oddly.  The  next  instant  he 
felt  suddenly  afraid.  There  was  confusion  in  his  soul. 
For  it  was  he  and  she,  it  seemed,  who  had  been  "sur- 
prised and  caught."  And  her  voice  called  shrilly: 

"Tony!     Tony  .  .  .    !" 

There  was  amazement  in  the  sound  of  it — terror,  re- 
lief, and  passion  too.  The  thin  note  of  fear  and  anguish 
broke  through  the  natural  call.  Then,  as  Tony  came  run- 
ning up,  a  few  sticks  in  his  big  hands — she  screamed, 
yet  with  failing  breath : 

"Oh,  oh  .  .  .   !    Who  are  you  ...   ?" 

For  the  man  she  summoned  came,  but  came  too  swiftly. 
Moving  with  uncertain  gait,  he  yet  came  rapidly — terri- 


222  The  Wave 

bly,  somehow,  and  with  violence.  Instantaneously,  it 
seemed  he  covered  the  intervening  space.  In  the  calm, 
sweet  moonlight,  beneath  the  blaze  of  the  steady  stars, 
he  suddenly  was — there,  upon  that  patch  of  ancient  desert 
sand.  He  looked  half  unearthly.  The  big  hands  he  held 
outspread  before  him  glistened  a  little  in  the  shimmer  of 
the  moon.  Yet  they  were  dark,  and  they  seemed  menac- 
ing. They  threatened — as  with  some  power  he  meant  to 
use,  because  it  was  his  right.  But  the  gleam  upon  them 
was  not  of  swarthy  skin  alone.  The  gleam,  the  darkness, 
were  of  blood.  .  .  .  There  was  a  cry  again — a  sound  of 
anguish  almost  intolerable.  .  .  . 

And  the  same  instant  Tom  felt  the  clasp  of  his  cousin's 
hand  upon  his  own,  and  heard  his  jolly  voice  with  easy, 
natural  laughter  in  it:  "But,  Tom,  old  chap,  how  rip- 
ping! You're  really  back!  This  is  a  grand  surprise! 
It's  splendid !" 

There  was  nothing  that  called  upon  either  his  courage 
or  control.  They  were  overjoyed  to  see  him,  the  sur- 
prise he  provided  proved  indeed  the  success  of  the  eve- 
ning. 

"I  thought  at  first  you  were  Mohammed  with  the  ket- 
tle," exclaimed  Madame  Jaretzka,  coming  close  to  make 
quite  sure,  and  murmuring  quickly — nervously  as  well, 
he  thought — Oh,  Tom,  I  am  so  glad,"  beneath  her  breath. 
"You're  just  in  time — we  all  wanted  you  so." 

Explanations  followed ;  Tony's  friends  had  postponed 
the  Cairo  trip  at  the  last  moment;  the  picnic  had  been 
planned  as  a  rehearsal  for  the  real  one  that  was  to  follow 
later.  Tom's  adroitness  in  finding  them  was  praised ;  he 
became  the  unwilling  hero  of  the  piece,  and  as  such  had 
to  make  the  fire  a  success  and  prove  himself  generally 
the  clou  of  the  party  that  hitherto  was  missing.  He  be- 
came at  once  the  life  and  center  of  the  little  group,  gay 
and  in  the  highest  spirits,  the  emotion  accumulated  in  him 


The  Wave  223 

discharging  itself  in  the  entirely  unexpected  direction  of 
hilarious  fun  and  gaiety. 

The  sense  of  tragedy  he  had  gathered  on  his  journey, 
if  it  muttered  at  all,  muttered  out  of  sight.  He  looked 
back  upon  his  feelings  of  an  hour  before  with  amazement, 
dismay,  distress — then  utterly  forgot  them.  The  picture 
itself — the  vision — was  as  though  it  had  not  been  at  all. 
What,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  had  -possessed  him 
that  he  could  ever  have  admitted  such  preposterous  un- 
easiness? He  thought  of  Mrs.  Haughstone's  absurd 
warnings  with  a  sharp  contempt,  and  felt  his  spirits  only 
rise  higher  than  before.  She  was  meanly  suspicious 
about  nothing.  Of  course  he  would  give  Lettice  a  hint : 
why  not,  indeed?  He  would  give  it  then  and  there  be- 
fore them  all  and  hear  them  laugh  about  it  till  they  cried. 
And  he  would  have  done  so,  doubtless,  but  that  he  real- 
ized the  woman's  jealousy  was  a  sordid  topic  to  introduce 
into  so  gay  a  party. 

"You  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time,  Tom,"  Lettice  told 
him.  "We  were  beginning  to  feel  the  solemnity  of  these 
surroundings,  the  awful  Tombs  of  the  Kings  and  Priests 
and  people.  Those  cliffs  are  too  oppressive  for  a  picnic." 

"A  fact,"  cried  Tony.  "It  feels  like  sacrilege.  They 
resent  us  being  here."  He  glanced  at  Madame  Jaretzka 
as  he  said  it.  "If  you  hadn't  come,  Tom,  I'm  sure  there'd 
have  been  a  disaster  somewhere.  Anyhow,  one  must  feel 
superstitious  to  enjoy  a  place  like  this.  It's  the  proper 
atmosphere !" 

Lettice  looked  up  at  Tom,  and  added,  "You've  really 
saved  us.  The  least  we  can  do  is  to  worship  the  sun  the 
moment  he  gets  up.  We'll  adore  old  Amon-Ra.  It's  ob- 
vious. We  must!" 

They  made  themselves  merry  over  a  rather  sandy  meal. 
She  arranged  a  place  for  him  close  beside  her,  and  her 
genuine  pleasure  at  his  unexpected  return  rilled  him  with 
a  joy  that  crowded  out  even  the  memory  of  other  emo- 
tions. The  mixture  called  Tom  Kelverdon  asserted  it- 


224  The  Wave 

self:  he  felt  ashamed;  he  heartily  despised  his  moods, 
wondering  whence  they  came  so  strangely.  Tony  him- 
self was  quiet  and  affectionate.  If  anything  was  lacking, 
Tom's  high  spirits  carried  him  too  boisterously  to  notice 
it.  Otherwise  he  might  possibly  have  thought  that  she 
spoke  a  little  sharply  once  or  twice  to  Tony,  neglecting 
him  in  a  way  that  was  not  quite  her  normal  way,  and  that 
to  himself,  even  before  the  others,  she  was  unusually — 
almost  too  emphatically — dear  and  tender.  Indeed,  she 
seemed  so  pleased  he  had  come  that  a  cynical  observer, 
cursed  with  an  ^ acute,  experienced  mind,  might  almost 
have  thought  she  showed  something  not  far  from  posi- 
tive relief.  But  Tom,  too  happy  to  be  sensitive  to  shades 
of  feminine  conduct,  was  aware  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  of 
his  own  joy  and  welcome. 

"You  didn't  get  my  letter,  then,  before  you  left?"  she 
asked  him  once;  and  he  replied,  "The  answer,  as 'in  Par- 
liament, is  in  the  negative.  But  it  will  be  forwarded  all 
right."  He  would  get  it  the  following  night.  "Ah,  but 
you  mustn't  read  it  now"  she  said.  "You  must  tear  it 
up  unread,"  and  made  him  promise  faithfully  he  would 
obey.  "/  wrote  to  you  too,"  mentioned  Tony,  as  though 
determined  to  be  left  out  of  nothing.  "You'll  get  it  at  the 
same  time.  But  you  mustn't  tear  mine  up,  remember. 
It's  full  of  advice  and  wisdom  you  badly  need."  And 
Tom  promised  that  faithfully  as  well.  The  reply  was 
in  the  affirmative. 

The  bivouac  was  a  complete  success ;  all  looked  back 
upon  it  as  an  unforgettable  experience.  They  declared, 
of  course,  they  had  not  slept  a  wink,  yet  all  had  snored 
quite  audibly  beneath  the  wheeling  stars.  They  were 
fresh  and  lively  enough,  certainly,  when  the  sun  poured 
his  delicious  warmth  across  the  cloudless  sky,  while  Tom 
and  Tony  made  the  fire  and  set  the  coffee  on  for  break- 
fast. 

Of  the  marvelous  beauty  that  preceded  the  actual  sun- 
rise no  one  spoke;  it  left  them  breathless  rather;  they 


The  Wave  225 

watched  the  sky  beyond  the  hills  change  color;  great 
shafts  of  gold  transfixed  the  violet  heavens;  the  Nile 
shone  faintly ;  then,  with  a  sudden  drive,  the  stars  rushed 
backwards  in  a  shower,  and  the  amazing  sun  came  up  as 
with  a  shout.  Perfumes  that  have  no  name  rose  from  the 
desert  and  the  fields  along  the  distant  river  banks.  The 
silence  deepened,  for  no  birds  sang.  Light  took  the 
world — and  it  was  morning. 

And  when  the  donkey-boys  arrived  at  eight  o'clock, 
the  party  were  slow  in  starting:  it  was  so  pleasant 
to  lie  and  bask  in  the  sumptuous  bath  of  heat  and  light 
that  drenched  them.  The  night  had  been  chilly  enough. 
They  were  a  tired  party.  Once  home  again,  all  retired 
with  one  accord  to  sleep,  remaining  invisible  until  the  sun 
was  slanting  over  Persia  and  the  Indian  Ocean,  gilding 
the  horizon  probably  above  the  starry  skies  of  far  Cathay. 

But  as  Tom  dozed  off  behind  the  shuttered  windows 
in  the  hotel  towards  eleven  o'clock,  having  bathed  and 
breakfasted  a  second  time,  he  thought  vaguely  of  what 
Mrs.  Haughstone  had  said  to  him  a  few  hours  before.  It 
seemed  days  ago  already.  He  was  too  drowsy  to  hold  the 
thought  more  than  a  moment  in  his  mind,  much  less  to 
reflect  upon  it.  "It  may  be  just  as  well  to  give  a  hint," 
occurred  to  him.  "Tony  is  a  bit  too  fond  of  her — too 
fond  for  his  happiness,  perhaps."  Nothing  had  happened 
at  the  picnic  to  revive  the  notion;  it  just  struck  him  as 
he  fell  asleep,  then  vanished;  it  was  a  moment's  instinct. 
The  vision — it  had  been  an  instantaneous  flash  after  all 
and  nothing  more — had  left  his  mind  completely  for  the 
time. 

But  Tom  looked  back  afterwards  upon  the  all-night 
bivouac  as  an  occasion  marked  specially  in  memory's 
calendar,  yet  for  a  reason  that  was  unlike  the  reasons  his 
companions  knew.  He  remembered  it  with  mingled  joy 
and  pain,  also  with  a  wonder  that  he  could  have  been  so 
blind — the  last  night  of  happiness  in  his  brief  Egyptian 
winter. 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  slept  through  the  hot  hours  of  the  afternoon.  In 
the  cool  of  the  evening,  as  he  strolled  along  the 
river  bank,  he  read  the  few  lines  Lettice  had  written  to 
him  at  Assouan.  For  the  porter  had  handed  him  half-a- 
dozen  letters  as  he  left  the  hotel.  Tony's  he  put  for  the 
moment  aside;  the  one  from  Lettice  was  all  he  cared 
about,  quite  forgetting  he  had  promised  to  tear  it  up  un- 
read. It  was  short  but  tender — anxious  about  his  com- 
fort and  well-being  in  a  strange  hotel  "when  I  am  not 
there  to  take  care  of  you."  It  ended  on  a  complaint  that 
she  was  "tired  rather  and  spending  my  time  at  full  length 
on  a  deck-chair  in  the  garden."  She  promised  to  write 
"at  greater  length  to-morrow." 

"Instead  of  which,"  thought  Tom  with  a  boy's  delight, 
"I  surprised  her  and  we  talked  face  to  face."  But  for 
the  Arab  touts  who  ran  beside  him,  offering  glass  beads 
made  in  Birmingham,  he  could  have  kissed  the  letter  there 
and  then. 

The  resplendent  gold  on  the  river  blinded  him,  he  was 
glad  to  enter  the  darker  street  and  shake  off  the  children 
who  pestered  him  for  bakshish.  Passing  the  Savoy  Ho- 
tel, he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on.  "No,  I  won't 
call  in  for  Tony,  I'll  find  her  alone,  and  we'll  have  a  cozy 
little  talk  together  before  the  others  come."  He  quick- 
ened his  pace,  entered  the  shady  garden,  discovered  her 
instantly,  and  threw  himself  down  upon  the  cushions 
beside  her  deck-chair.  "Just  what  I  hoped,"  he  said,  with 
pleasure  and  admiration  in  his  eyes,  "alone  at  last.  That 
is  good  luck — isn't  it,  Lettice?" 

226 


The  Wave  227 

"Of  course,"  she  agreed,  and  smiled  lazily,  though 
some  might  have  thought  indifferently,  as  she  watched 
him  arranging  the  cushions. 

He  flung  himself  back  and  gazed  at  her.  She  wore  a 
dress  of  palest  yellow,  and  the  broad-brimmed  hat  with 
the  little  roses.  She  seemed  part  of  the  flaming  sunset 
and  the  tawny  desert. 

"Well,"  he  grumbled  playfully,  "it  is  true,  isn't  it  ?  Our 
not  being  alone  often,  I  mean?"  He  watched  her  with- 
out knowing  that  he  did  so. 

"In  a  way — yes,"  she  said.  "But  we  can't  have  every- 
thing at  once,  can  we,  Tom?"  Her  voice  was  colorless 
perhaps.  A  tiny  frown  settled  for  an  instant  between  her 
eyes,  then  vanished.  Tom  did  not  notice  it.  She  sighed. 
"You  baby,  Tom.  I  spoil  you  dreadfully,  and  you  know 
I  do." 

He  liked  her  in  this  quiet,  teasing  mood ;  it  was  often 
the  prelude  to  more  delightful  spoiling.  He  was  in  high 
spirits.  "You  look  as  fresh  as  a  girl  of  sixteen,  Lettice," 
he  declared.  "I  believe  you're  only  this  instant  out  of 
your  bath  and  bed.  D'you  know,  I  slept  like  a  baby  too — 
the  whole  afternoon " 

He  interrupted  himself,  for  at  that  moment  a  cigarette 
case  on  the  sand  beside  him  caught  his  eye.  He  picked  it 
up — he  recognized  it.  "Yes — I  wish  you'd  smoke,"  she 
said  the  same  instant,  brushing  a  fly  quickly  from  her 
cheek. 

"Tony's,"  he  exclaimed,  examining  the  case. 

He  noticed  at  the  same  time  several  burnt  matches  be- 
tween his  cushions  and  her  chair. 

"But  he'd  love  you  to  smoke  them:  I'll  take  the  re- 
sponsibility." She  laughed  quietly.  "I'm  sure  they're 
good — better  than  yours;  he's  wickedly  extravagant." 
She  watched  him  as  he  took  one  out,  examining  the  label 
critically,  then  lighting  it  slowly  and  inhaling  the  smoke 
to  taste  it.  There  was  a  faint  perfume  that  clung  to  the 
case  and  its  contents. 


228  The  Wave 

"Ambra,"  said  Lattice,  a  kind  of  watchful  amusement 
in  her  eyes.  "You  don't  like  it !" 

Tom  looked  up  sharply. 

"Is  that  it?    I  didn't  know/' 

She  nodded.  "It's  Tony's  smell,  haven't  you  noticed 
it?  He  always  has  it  about  him.  No,  no,'*  she  laughed, 
noticing  his  expression  of  disapproval,  "he  doesn't  use  it. 
It's  just  in  his  atmosphere,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  is  it?"  said  Tom. 

"I  rather  like  it,"  she  went  on  idly,  "but  I  never  can 
make  out  where  it  comes  from.  We  call  it  ambra— the 
fragrance  that  hangs  about  the  bazaars :  I  believe  they 
used  it  for  the  mummies ;  but  the  desert  perfume  is  in  it 
too.  It's  rather  wonderful — it  suits  him — don't  you 
think?  Penetrating,  and  so  delicate." 

What  a  lot  she  had  to  say  about  it !  He  made  no  reply. 
He  was  looking  down  to  see  what  caused  him  that  sud- 
den, inexplicable  pain — and  discovered"  that  the  lighted 
match  had  burned  his  fingers.  The  next  minute  he  looked 
up  again — straight  into  her  eyes. 

But,  somehow,  he  did  not  say  exactly  what  he  meant 
to  say.  He  said,  in  fact,  something  that  occurred  to  him 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  His  mind  was  simple,  pos- 
sibly, yet  imps  occasionally  made  use  of  it.  An  imp  just 
then  reminded  him :  "Her  letter  made  no  mention  of  the 
picnic,  of  Tony's  sudden  change  of  plan,  yet  it  was  writ- 
ten yesterday  morning  when  both  were  being  arranged." 

So  Tom  did  not  refer  to  the  ambra  perfume,  nor  to 
the  fact  that  Tony  had  spent  the  afternoon  with  her.  He 
said  quite  another  thing — said  it  rather  bluntly  too  :  "I've 
just  got  your  letter  from  Assouan,  Lettice,  and  I  clean 
forgot  my  promise  that  I  wouldn't  read  it."  He  paused 
a  second.  "You  said  nothing  about  the  picnic  in  it." 

"I  thought  you'd  be  disappointed  if  you  knew,"  she 
replied  at  once.  "That's  why  I  didn't  want  you  to  read 
it."  And  she  fell  to  scolding  him  in  the  way  he  usually 
loved, — but  at  the  moment  found  less  stimulating  for 


The  Wave  229 

some  reason.  He  smoked  his  stolen  cigarette  with  energy 
for  a  measurable  period. 

"You're  the  spoilt  child,  not  I,"  he  said  at  length,  still 
looking  at  her.  "You  said  you  were  tired  and  meant  to 
rest,  and  then  you  go  for  an  exhausting  expedition  in- 
stead." 

The  tiny  frown  reappeared  between  her  eyes,  lingered 
a  trifle  longer  than  before,  and  vanished.  She  made  a 
quick  gesture.  "You're  in  a  very  nagging  mood,  Tom; 
bivouacs  don't  agree  with  you."  She  spoke  lightly,  eas- 
ily, in  excellent  good  temper  really.  "It  was  Tony  per- 
suaded me,  if  you  want  to  know  the  truth.  He  found 
himself  free  unexpectedly ;  he  was  so  persistent ;  it's  im- 
possible to  resist  him  when  he's  like  that — the  only  thing 
is  to  give  in  and  go." 

"Of  course."  Tom's  face  was  like  a  mask.  He  thought 
so,  at  least,  as  he  laughed  and  agreed  with  her,  saying 
Tony  was  an  unscrupulous  rascal  at  the  best  of  times. 
Apparently  there  was  a  struggle  in  him;  he  seemed  in 
two  minds.  "Was  he  here  this  afternoon?"  he  asked. 
He  learned  that  Tony  had  come  at  four  o'clock  and  had 
tea  with  her  alone.  "We  didn't  telephone  because  he  said 
it  would  only  spoil  your  sleep,  and  that  a  man  who  works 
as  well  as  plays  must  sleep — longer  than  a  younger  man." 
Then,  as  Tom  said  nothing,  she  added,  "Tony  is  such  a 
boy,  isn't  he?" 

There  were  several  emotions  in  Tom  just  then.  He 
hardly  knew  which  was  the  true,  or  at  least,  the  domi- 
nant one.  He  was  thinking  of  several  things  at  once  too: 
of  her  letter,  of  that  faint  peculiar  odor,  of  Tony's  com- 
ing to  tea,  but  chiefly,  perhaps,  of  the  fact  that  Lettice 
had  not  mentioned  it, — but  that  he  had  found  it  out.  .  .  . 
His  heart  sank.  It  struck  him  suddenly  that  the  mother 
in  her  sought  to  protect  him  from  the  pain  the  woman 
gave. 

"Is  he — yes,"  he  said  absent-mindedly.  And  she  re- 
peated quietly,  "Oh,  I  think  so." 


230  The  Wave 

The  brief  eastern  twilight  had  meanwhile  fallen,  and 
the  rapidly  cooling  air  sighed  through  the  foliage.  It 
grew  darker  in  their  shady  corner.  The  western  sky  was 
still  a  blaze  of  riotous  color,  however,  that  filtered  through 
the  trees  and  shed  a  luminous  glow  upon  their  faces. 
It  was  a  bewitching  light — there  was  something  bewitch- 
ing about  Lettice  as  she  lay  there.  Tom  himself  felt  a 
touch  of  that  deep  Egyptian  enchantment.  It  stole  in 
among  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  coloring  motives,  lift- 
ing into  view,  as  from  far  away,  moods  that  he  hardly 
understood  and  yet  obeyed  because  they  were  familiar. 

This  evasive  sense  of  familiarity,  both  welcome  and  un- 
welcome, swept  in,  dropped  a  fleeting  whisper,  and  was 
gone  again.  He  felt  himself  for  an  instant — some  one 
else :  one  Tom  felt  and  spoke,  while  another  Tom  looked 
on  and  watched,  a  calm  outside  spectator.  And  upon 
his  heart  came  a  touch  of  that  strange,  rich  pain  that 
was  never  very  far  away  in  Egypt. 

"I  say,  Lettice,"  he  began  suddenly,  as  though  he  came 
to  an  abrupt  decision.  "This  is  an  awful  place  for  talk — 

these  Luxor  hotels "  He  stuck.  "Isn't  it?  You 

know  what  I  mean."  His  laborious  manner  betrayed  in- 
tensity, yet  he  meant  to  speak  lightly,  easily,  and  thought 
his  voice  was  merely  natural.  He  stared  hard  at  the 
glowing  tip  of  his  cigarette. 

Lettice  looked  across  at  him  without  speaking  for  a 
moment.  Her  eyelids  were  half  closed.  He  felt  her  gaze 
and  raised  his  own.  He  saw  the  smile  steal  down  towards 
her  lips. 

"Tom,  why  are  you  glaring  at  me  ?" 

He  started.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  there  was  no  smile 
in  him. 

"Was  I,  Lettice?  Forgive  me."  The  talk  that  was 
coming  would  hurt  him,  yet  somehow  he  desired  it.  He 
would  give  his  little  warning  and  take  the  consequences. 
"I  was  devouring  your  beauty,  as  the  Family  Herald 
says."  He  heard  himself  utter  a  dry  and  unconvincing 


The  Wave  231 

laugh.  Something  was  rising  through  him ;  it  was  beyond 
control;  it  had  to  come.  He  felt  stupid,  awkward,  and 
was  angry  with  himself  for  being  so.  For,  somehow, 
he  felt  powerless  too. 

She  came  to  the  point  with  a  directness  that  discon- 
certed him.  "Who  has  been  talking  about  me?"  she  en- 
quired, her  voice  hardening  a  little;  "and  what  does  it 
matter  if  they  have?" 

Tom  swallowed.  There  was  something  about  her 
beauty  in  that  moment  that  set  him  on  fire  from  head  to 
foot.  He  knew  a  fierce  desire  to  seize  her  in  his  arms, 
hold  her  for  ever  and  ever — lest  she  should  escape  him. 

But  he  was  unable  to  give  expression  in  any  way  to 
what  was  in  him.  All  he  did  was  to  shift  his  cushions 
slightly  further  from  her  side. 

"It's  always  wiser — safer — not  to  be  seen  about  too 
much  with  the  same  man — alone,"  he  fumbled,  recalling 
Mrs.  Haughstone's  words,  "in  a  place  like  this,  I  mean," 
he  qualified  it.  It  sounded  foolish,  but  he  could  evolve  no 
cleverer  way  of  phrasing  it.  He  went  on  quicker,  a  touch 
of  nervousness  in  his  voice  he  tried  to  smother :  "No  one 
can  mistake  our  relationship,  or  think  there's  anything 
wrong  in  it."  He  stopped  a  second,  as  she  gazed  at  him 
in  silence,  waiting  for  him  to  finish.  "But  Tony,"  he  con- 
cluded, with  a  gulp  he  prayed  she  did  not  notice,  "Tony 
is  a  little " 

"Well?"  she  helped  him,  "a  little  what ?" 

"A  little  different,  isn't  he?" 

Tom  realized  that  he  was  producing  the  reverse  of 
what  he  intended.  Somehow  the  choice  of  words  seemed 
forced  upon  him.  He  was  aware  of  his  own  helplessness; 
he  felt  almost  like  a  boy  scolding  his  own  wise,  affection- 
ate mother.  The  thought  stung  him  into  pain,  and  with 
the  pain  rose,  too,  a  first  distant  hint  of  anger.  The  tur- 
moil of  feeling  confused  him.  He  was  aware — by  her 
silence  chiefly — of  the  new  distance  between  them,  a  dis- 
tance the  mention  of  Tony  had  emphasized.  Instinctively 


232  The  Wave 

he  tried  to  hide  both  pain  and  anger — it  could  only  in- 
crease this  distance  that  was  already  there.  At  the  same 
time  he  saw  red.  .  .  .  Her  answer,  then,  so  gently  given, 
baffled  him  absurdly.  He  felt  out  of  his  depth. 

"I'll  be  more  careful,  Tom,  dear — you  wise,  experi- 
enced chaperone." 

The  words,  the  manner,  stung  him.  Another  emotion, 
wounded  vanity,  came  into  play.  To  laugh  at  himself 
was  natural  and  right,  but  to  be  laughed  at  by  a  woman, 
a  woman  whom  he  loved,  whom  he  regarded  as  exclu- 
sively his  own,  against  whom,  moreover,  he  had  an  accu- 
mulating grievance — it  hurt  him  acutely,  although  he 
seemed  powerless  to  prevent  it.  He  felt  his  own  stupid- 
ity increase. 

"It's  just  as  well,  I  think,  Lettice."  It  was  the  wrong, 
the  hopeless  thing  to  say,  but  the  words  seemed,  in  a 
sense,  pushed  quickly  out  of  his  mouth  lest  he  should 
find  better  ones.  He  anticipated,  too,  her  exasperation 
before  her  answer  proved  it:  "But,  really,  Tom,  you 
know,  I  can  look  after  myself  rather  well  as  a  rule — 
don't  you  think?" 

He  interrupted  her  then,  a  mixture  of  several  feelings 
in  him — shame,  the  pain  of  frustrate  yearning,  perplexity 
too.  For,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  wanted  to  hear  how  she 
would  speak  of  Tony.  He  meant  to  punish  himself  by 
hearing  her  praise  him.  He,  too,  meant  to  speak  well 
of  his  cousin. 

"He's  a  bit  careless,  though,"  he  blurted,  "irresponsi- 
ble, in  a  way — where  women  are  concerned.  I'm  sure  he 
means  no  harm,  of  course,  but "  He  paused  in  con- 
fusion, he  was  no  longer  afraid  that  harm  might  come 
to  Tony ;  he  was  afraid  for  her,  but  now  also  for  himself 
as  well. 

"Tom,  I  do  believe  you're  jealous !" 

He  laughed  boisterously  when  he  heard  it.  It  was 
really  comical,  awfully  comical,  of  course.  It  sounded, 


The  Wave  233 

too,  the  way  she  said  it — ugly,  mean,  contemptible.  The 
touch  of  shame  came  back. 

"Lettice!  But  what  an  idea!"  He  gasped,  turning 
round  upon  his  other  elbow,  closer  to  her.  But  the 
sinking  of  his  heart  increased;  he  felt  an  inner  cold. 
And  a  moment  of  deep  silence  followed  the  empty  laugh- 
ter. The  rustle  of  the  foliage  alone  was  audible. 

Lettice  looked  down  sideways  at  him  through  half- 
closed  eyelids;  propped  on  his  cushions  beside  her,  this 
was  natural:  yet  he  felt  it  mental  as  well  as  physical. 
There  was  pity  in  her  attitude,  a  concealed  exasperation, 
almost  contempt.  At  the  same  time  he  realized  that  she 
had  never  seemed  so  adorably  lovely,  so  exquisite,  so  out 
of  his  reach.  He  had  never  felt  her  so  seductively  de- 
sirable. He  made  an  impetuous  gesture  towards  her  be- 
fore he  knew  it. 

"Don't,  Tom;  you'll  upset  my  papers  and  everything," 
she  said  calmly,  yet  with  the  merest  suspicion  of  annoy- 
ance in  her  tone.  She  was  very  gentle,  she  was  also  very 
cold — cold  as  ice,  he  felt  her,  while  he  was  burning  as 
with  fire.  He  was  aware  of  this  unbridgeable  distance 
between  his  passion  and  her  indifference ;  and  a  dreadful 
thought  leaped  up  in  him  with  stabbing  pain :  "Her  an- 
swer to  Tony  would  have  been  quite  otherwise." 

"I'm  sorry,  Lettice — so  sorry,"  he  said  bruskly,  to 
hide  his  mortification.  "I'm  awfully  clumsy."  She  was 
putting  her  papers  tidy  again  with  calm  fingers,  while  his 
own  were  almost  cramped  with  the  energy  of  suppressed 
desire.  "But,  seriously,"  he  went  on,  refusing  the  rebuff 
by  pretending  it  was  play  on  his  part,  "it  isn't  very  wise 
to  be  seen  about  so  much  alone  with  Tony.  Believe  me, 
it  isn't."  For  the  first  time,  he  noticed,  it  was  difficult  to 
use  the  familiar  and  affectionate  name.  But  for  a  sense 
of  humor  he  could  have  said  "Anthony." 

"I  do  believe  you,  Tom.  I'll  be  more  careful."  Her  eyes 
were  very  soft,  her  manner  quiet,  her  gentle  tone  untinged 
with  any  emotion.  Yet  Tom  detected,  he  felt  sure,  a  cer- 


234  The  Wave 

tain  eagerness  behind  the  show  of  apparent  indifference. 
She  liked  to  talk — to  go  on  talking — about  Tony.  "Do 
you  really  think  so,  really  mean  it?"  he  heard  her  ask- 
ing, and  thus  knew  his  thought  confirmed.  She  invited 
more.  And,  with  open  eyes,  with  a  curious  welcome  even 
to  the  pain  involved,  Tom  deliberately  stepped  into  the 
cruel  little  trap.  But  he  almost  felt  that  something  pushed 
him  in.  He  talked  exactly  like  a  boy:  "He — he's  got  a 
peculiar  power  with  women/'  he  said.  "I  can't  make  it 
out  quite.  He's  not  good-looking — exactly — is  he?"  It 
was  impossible  to  conceal  his  eagerness  to  know  exactly 
what  she  did  feel. 

"There's  a  touch  of  genius  in  him/'  she  answered.  "I 
don't  think  looks  matter  so  much — I  mean,  with  women." 
She  spoke  with  a  certain  restraint,  not  deliberately  say- 
ing less  than  she  thought,  but  yet  keeping  back  the  entire 
truth.  He  suddenly  realized  a  relationship  between  her 
and  Tony  into  which  he  was  not  admitted.  The  distance 
between  them  increased  visibly  before  his  very  eyes. 

And  again,  out  of  a  hundred  things  he  wanted  to  say, 
he  said — as  though  compelled  to — another  thing. 

"Rather !"  he  burst  out  honestly.  "I  should  hate  it  if 
— you  hadn't  liked  him."  But  a  week  ago  he  would  have 
phrased  this  differently — "If  he  had  not  liked  you." 

There  were  perceptible  pauses  between  their  sentences 
now,  pauses  that  for  him  seemed  breaking  with  a  sus- 
pense that  was  painful,  almost  cruel.  He  knew  worse 
was  coming.  He  both  longed  for  it  yet  dreaded  it.  He 
felt  at  her  mercy,  in  her  power  somehow. 

"It's  odd,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "but  in  England  I 
thought  him  stupid  rather,  whereas  out  here  he's  changed 
into  another  person." 

"I  think  we've  all  changed — somehow,"  Tom  filled  the 
pause,  and  was  going  to  say  more  when  she  interrupted. 
She  kept  the  conversation  upon  Tony. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  day  he  walked  in  here  first. 
It  was  the  week  I  arrived.  You'll  laugh,  Tom,  when  I 


The  Wave  235 

tell  you "  She  hesitated — almost  it  seemed  on  pur- 
pose. 

"How  was  it?  How  did  he  look?"  The  forced  indif- 
ference of  the  tone  betrayed  his  anxiety. 

"Well,  he's  not  impressive  exactly — is  he? — as  a  rule. 
That  little  stoop — and  so  on.  But  I  saw  his  figure  com- 
ing up  the  path  before  I  recognized  who  it  was,  and  I 
thought  suddenly  of  an  Egyptian,  almost  an  old  Pha- 
raoh, walking." 

She  broke  off  with  that  little  significant  laugh  Tom 
knew  so  well.  But,  comical  though  the  picture  might 
have  been — Tony  walking  like  a  king — Tom  did  not  laugh. 
It  was  not  ludicrous,  for  it  was  somewhere  true.  He 
remembered  the  singular  inner  mental  picture  he  had  seen 
above  the  desert  fire,  and  the  pain  within  him  seemed  the 
forerunner  of  some  tragedy  that  watched  too  close  upon 
his  life.  But,  for  another  and  more  obvious  reason,  he 
could  not  laugh ;  for  he  heard  the  admiration  in  her  voice, 
and  it  was  upon  that  his  mind  fastened  instantly.  His 
observation  was  so  mercilessly  sharp.  He  hated  it. 
Where  was  his  usual  slowness  gone  ?  Why  was  his  blood 
so  quickly  apprehensive? 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his,  saying  what  fol- 
lowed gently,  calmly,  yet  as  though  another  woman  spoke 
the  words.  She  stabbed  him,  noting  the  effect  upon  him 
with  a  detached  interest  that  seemed  indifferent  to  his 
pain.  Something  remote  and  ancient  stirred  in  her,  some- 
thing that  was  not  of  herself  To-day,  something  half 
primitive,  half  barbaric. 

"It  may  have  been  the  blazing  light,"  she  went  on,  "the 
half-savage  effect  of  these  amazing  sunsets — I  cannot 
say — but  I  saw  him  in  a  sheet  of  gold.  There  was  gold 
about  him,  I  mean,  as  though  he  wore  it — and  when  he 
came  close  there  was  that  odd,  faint  perfume,  half  of  the 

open  desert  and  half  of  ambra,  as  we  call  it "  Again 

she  broke  off  and  hesitated,  leaving  the  impression  there 
was  more  to  tell,  but  that  she  could  not  say  it.  She  kept 


236  The  Wave 

back  much.  Into  the  distance  now  established  between 
them  Tom  felt  a  creeping  sense  of  cold,  as  of  the  chill 
desert  wind  that  follows  hard  upon  the  sunset.  Her  eyes 
still  held  him  steadily.  He  seemed  more  and  more  aware 
of  something  merciless  in  her. 

He  sat  and  gazed  at  her — at  a  woman  he  loved,  a 
woman  who  loved  him,  but  a  woman  who  now  caused 
him  pain  deliberately  because  something  beyond  herself 
compelled.  Her  tenderness  lay  inactive,  though  surely 
not  forgotten.  She,  too,  felt  the  pain.  Yet  with  her  it 
was  in  some  odd  way — impersonal.  .  .  .  Tom,  hope- 
lessly out  of  his  depth,  swept  onward  by  this  mighty  wave 
behind  all  three  of  them,  sat  still  and  watched  her — 
fascinated,  even  terrified.  Her  eyelids  were  half  closed 
again.  Another  look  stole  up  into  her  face,  driving  away 
the  modern  beauty,  replacing  its  softness,  tenderness  with 
another  expression  he  could  not  fathom.  Yet  this  new 
expression  was  somehow,  too,  half  recognizable.  It  was 
difficult  to  describe — a  little  sterner,  a  little  wilder,  a  faint 
emphasis  of  the  barbaric  peering  through  it.  It  was 
darker.  She  looked  eastern.  Almost,  he  saw  her  visibly 
change — here  in  the  twilight  of  the  little  Luxor  garden 
by  his  side.  Distance  increased  remorselessly  between 
them.  She  was  far  away,  yet  ever  close  at  the  same  time. 
He  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  going  away  from  him 
or  coming  nearer.  The  shadow  of  tragedy  fell  on  him 
from  the  empty  sky.  .  .  . 

In  his  bewilderment  he  tried  to  hold  steady  and  watch, 
but  the  soul  in  him  rushed  backwards.  He  felt,  but  could 
not  think.  The  wave  surged  under  him.  Various  im- 
pulses urged  him  into  a  pouring  flood  of  words;  yet  he 
gave  expression  to  none  of  them.  He  laughed  a  little  dry, 
short  laugh.  He  heard  himself  saying  lightly,  though 
with  apparent  lack  of  interest :  "How  curious,  Lettice, 
how  very  odd !  What  made  him  look  like  that  ?" 

But  he  knew  her  answer  would  mean  pain.  It  came 
just  as  he  expected : 


The  Wave  237 

"He  is  wonderful — out  here — quite  different "  An- 
other minute  and  she  would  have  added  "I'm  different, 
too."  But  Tom  interrupted  hurriedly: 

"Do  you  always  see  him — like  that — now?  In  a  sheet 
of  gold — with  beauty  ?"  His  tongue  was  so  hot  and  dry 
against  his  lips  that  he  almost  stammered. 

She  nodded,  her  eyelids  still  half  closed.  She  lay  very 
quiet,  peering  down  at  him.  "It  lasts  ?"  he  insisted,  turn- 
ing the  knife  himself. 

"You'll  laugh  when  I  tell  you  something  more,"  she 
went  on,  making  a  slight  gesture  of  assent,  "but  I  felt 
such  joy  in  myself — so  wild  and  reckless — that  when  I 
got  to  my  room  that  night  I  danced — danced  alone  with 
all  my  clothes  off." 

"Lettice!" 

"The  spontaneous  happiness  was  like  a  child's — a  sort 
of  freedom  feeling.  I  had  to  shake  my  clothes  off  sim- 
ply. I  wanted  to  shake  off  the  walls  and  ceiling  too,  and 
get  out  into  the  open  desert.  Tom — I  felt  out  of  myself 
in  a  way — as  though  I'd  escaped — into — into  quite  dif- 
ferent conditions — " 

She  gave  details  of  the  singular  mood  that  had  come 
upon  her  with  the  arrival  of  Tony,  but  Tom  hardly  heard 
her.  Only  too  well  he  knew  the  explanation.  The  touch 
of  ecstasy  was  no  new  thing,  although  its  manifestation 
may  have  been  peculiar.  He  had  known  it  himself  in  his 
own  lesser  love  affairs.  But  that  she  could  calmly  tell 
him  about  it,  that  she  could  deliberately  describe  this  ef- 
fect upon  her  of  another  man — !  It  baffled  him  beyond  j 
all  thoughts  or  words.  .  .  .  Was  the  self -revelation  an  j 
unconscious  one?  Did  she  realize  the  meaning  of  what 
she  told  him?  The  Lettice  he  had  known  could  surely 
not  say  this  thing.  In  her  he  felt  again,  more  distinctly 
than  before,  another  person — division,  conflict.  Her  hesi- 
tations, her  face,  her  gestures,  her  very  language  proved 
it.  He  shrank,  as  from  some  one  who  inflicted  pain  as 
a  child,  unwittingly,  to  see  what  the  effect  would  be.  .  ,  . 


238  The  Wave 

He    remembered    the    incident    of    the    insect    in    the 
sand.  .  .  . 

"And  I  feel — even  now — I  could  do  it  again,"  her  voice 
pierced  in  across  his  moment  of  hidden  anguish.  The 
knife  she  had  thrust  again  into  his  breast  was  twisted 
then. 

It  was  time  that  he  said  something,  and  a  sentence 
offered  itself  in  time  to  save  him.  The  desire  to  hide  his 
pain  from  her  was  too  strong  to  be  disobeyed.  He 
wanted  to  know,  yet  not,  somehow,  to  prevent.  He  seized 
upon  the  sentence,  keeping  his  voice  steady  with  an  effort 
that  cut  his  very  flesh :  "There's  nothing  impersonal  ex- 
actly in  that,  Lettice !"  he  exclaimed  with  an  exag- 
gerated lightness. 

"Oh  no,"  she  agreed.  "But  it's  only  in  England,  per- 
haps, that  I'm  impersonal,  as  you  call  it.  I  suppose,  out 
here,  I've  changed.  The  beauty,  the  mystery, — this  fierce 

sunshine  or  something — stir "     She  hesitated  for  a 

fraction  of  a  second. 

"The  woman  in  you,"  he  put  in,  turning  the  knife  this 
time  with  his  own  fingers  deliberately.  The  words 
seemed  driven  out  by  their  own  impetus;  he  did  not 
choose  them.  A  faint  ghastly  hope  was  in  him — that  she 
would  shake  her  head  and  contradict  him. 

She  waited  a  moment,  then  turned  her  eyes  aside. 
"Perhaps,  Tom.  I  wonder  .  .  . !" 

And  as  she  said  it,  Tom  knew  suddenly  another  thing 
as  well.  It  stood  out  clearly,  as  with  big  printed  letters 
that  violent  advertisements  use  upon  the  hoardings.  Her 
new  joy  and  excitement,  her  gaiety  and  zest  for  life — 
all  had  been  caused,  not  by  himself,  but  by  another 
Heavens !  how  blind  he  had  been !  He  understood  at  last, 
and  a  flood  of  freezing  water  drenched  him.  His  heart 
stopped  beating  for  a  moment.  He  gasped.  He  could 
not  get  his  breath.  His  accumulating  doubts  hitherto  un- 
expressed, almost  unacknowledged  even,  were  now  con- 
firmed. 


The  Wave  239 

He  got  up  stiffly,  awkwardly,  from  his  cushions,  and 
moved  a  few  steps  towards  the  house,  for  there  stole 
upon  her  altered  face  just  then  the  very  expression  of  ex- 
citement, of  radiant  and  spontaneous  joy,  he  had  believed 
until  this  moment  was  caused  by  himself.  Tony  was 
coming  up  the  darkened  drive.  He  was  exactly  in  her 
line  of  sight.  And  a  severe,  embittered  struggle  then  took 
place  in  a  heart  that  seemed  strangely  divided  against 
itself.  He  felt  as  though  a  second  Tom,  yet  still  himself, 
battled  against  the  first,  exchanging  thrusts  of  indescrib- 
able torture.  The  complexity  of  emotions  in  his  heart 
was  devastating  beyond  anything  he  had  ever  known  in 
his  thirty-five  years  of  satisfied,  self-centered  life.  Two 
voices  spoke  in  clear,  sharp  sentences,  one  against  the 
other : 

"Your  suspicions  are  unworthy,  shameful.  Trust  her. 
She's  as  loyal  and  true  and  faithful  as  yourself !"  cried 
the  first. 

And  the  second : 

"Blind!  Can't  you  see  what's  going  on  between  them? 
It  has  happened  to  other  men,  why  not  to  you?"  She  is 
playing  with  you ;  she  has  outgrown  your  love.  It  was  the 
older  voice  that  used  the  words. 

"Impossible,  ridiculous !"  the  first  voice  cried.  "There's 
something  wrong  with  me  that  I  can  have  such  wretched 
thoughts.  It's  merely  innocence  and  joy  of  life.  No  one 
can  take  my  place." 

To  which,  again,  the  second  Tom  made  bitter  answer. 
"You  are  too  old  for  her,  too  dull,  too  ordinary!  You 
hold  the  loving  mother  still,  but  a  younger  man  has  waked 
the  woman  in  her.  And  you  must  let  it  come.  You  dare 
not  blame.  Nor  have  you  the  right  to  interfere." 

So  acute,  so  violent  was  the  perplexity  in  him  that  he 
knew  not  what  to  say  or  do  at  first.  Unable  to  come  to 
a  decision,  he  stood  there,  waving  his  hand  to  Tony  with 
a  cry  of  welcome.  His  first  vehement  desire  to  be  alone, 
to  make  an  excuse,  to  get  to  his  room  and  think,  had 


240  The  Wave 

passed:  a  second,  a  maturer  attitude  conquered  it:  to 
take  whatever  came,  to  face  it,  in  a  word  to  know  the 
worst  .  .  .  And  the  extraordinary  pain  he  hid  by  an 
exuberance  of  high  spirits  that  surprised  himself.  It 
was,  of  course,  the  suppressed  emotional  energy  rinding 
another  outlet.  A  similar  state  had  occurred  that  "Kar- 
nak  night"  of  a  long  ten  days  ago,  though  he  had  not 
understood  it  then.  Behind  it  lay  the  misery  of  loneli- 
ness that  he  knew  in  his  very  bones  was  coming. 

"Tony!  So  it  is.  I  was  afraid  he'd  change  his  mind 
and  leave  us  in  the  lurch." 

Tom  heard  the  laugh  of  happiness  as  she  said  it;  he 
heard  the  voice  distinctly — the  change  of  tone  in  it,  the 
softness,  the  half-caressing  tenderness  that  crept  uncon- 
sciously in — the  faint  thrill  of  womanly  passion.  Un- 
consciously, yes !  he  was  sure,  at  least,  of  that.  She  did 
not  know  quite  yet,  she  did  not  realize  what  had  hap- 
pened. Honest  to  the  core,  he  felt  her.  His  love  surged 
up  tumultuously.  He  could  face  pain,  loss,  death — or,  as 
he  put  it,  "almost  anything,"  if  it  meant  happiness  to 
her.  The  thought,  at  any  rate,  came  to  him  thus.  .  .  . 
And  Tom  believed  it. 

At  the  same  moment  he  heard  her  voice,  close  behind 
him  this  time.  She  had  left  her  chair,  meaning  to  go 
indoors  and  prepare  for  supper  before  Tony  actually 
arrived.  "Tom,  dear  boy,"  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  a 
moment  as  she  passed,  "you're  tired  or  something.  I  can 
see  it.  I  believe  you're  worrying.  There's  something 
you  haven't  told  me — isn't  there  now  ?"  She  gave  him  a 
loving  glance  that  was  of  purest  gold.  "You  shall  tell 
me  all  about  it  when  we're  alone.  You  must  tell  me 
everything." 

The  pain  and  joy  in  him  were  equal  then.  He  was  a 
boy  of  eighteen,  aching  over  his  first  love  affair ;  and  she 
was  divinely  mothering  him.  It  was  extraordinary;  it 
was  past  belief ;  another  minute,  had  they  been  alone,  he 
could  almost  have  laid  his  head  upon  her  breast,  com- 


The  Wave  241 

plaining  in  anguish  to  the  mother  in  her  that  the  woman 
he  loved  was  gone.  "I  feel  you're  slipping  from  me! 
I'm  losing  you  .  .  . !" 

Instead  he  stammered  some  commonplace  unreality 
about  his  work  at  Assouan  and  heard  her  agree  with  him 
that  he  certainly  must  not  neglect  it — and  she  was  gone 
into  the  house.  The  swinging  curtains  of  dried  grasses 
hid  her  a  few  feet  beyond,  but  between  them,  he  felt, 
stretched  five  thousand  years  and  half  a  dozen  continents 
as  well. 

"Tom,  old  chap,  did  you  get  my  letter  ?  You  promised 
to  read  it.  Is  it  all  right,  I  mean  ?  I  wouldn't  for  all  the 
world  let  anything " 

Tom  stopped  him  abruptly.  He  wished  to  read  the 
letter  for  himself  without  foreknowledge  of  its  contents. 

"Eh  ?  No— that  is,  I  got  it,"  he  said  confusedly,  "but 
I  haven't  read  it  yet.  I  slept  all  the  afternoon." 

An  expression  of  anxiety  in  Tony's  face  came  and  van- 
ished. "You  can  tell  me  to-morrow — frank  as  you  like, 
mind,"  he  replied,  to  which  Tom  said  quite  eagerly, 
"Rather,  Tony:  of  course.  I'll  read  your  old  letter  the 
moment  I  get  back  to-night."  And  Tony,  merry  as  a 
sandboy,  changed  the  subject,  declaring  that  he  had  only 
one  desire  in  life  just  then,  and  that  was — food. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE  conflict  in  Tom's  puzzled  heart  sharpened  that 
evening  into  dreadful  edges  that  cut  him  mercilessly 
whichever  way  he  turned.  One  minute  he  felt  sure  of 
Lettice,  the  next  the  opposite  was  clear.  Between  these 
two  certainties  he  balanced  in  secret  torture,  one  factor 
alone  constant — that  his  sense  of  security  was  shaken  to 
the  foundations. 

Belief  in  his  own  value  had  never  been  thus  assailed 
before ;  that  he  was  indispensable  had  been  an  ultimate 
assurance.  His  vanity  and  self-esteem  now  toppled  omi- 
nously. A  sense  of  inferiority  crept  over  him,  as  on  the 
first  day  of  his  arrival  at  Alexandria.  There  seemed  the 
flavor  of  some  strange  authority  in  her  that  baffled  all  ap- 
proach to  the  former  intimacy.  He  hardly  recognized 
himself,  for,  the  foundations  being  shaken,  all  that  was 
built  upon  them  trembled  too. 

The  insecurity  showed  in  the  smallest  trifles — he  ex- 
pressed himself  hesitatingly ;  he  felt  awkward,  clumsy,  in- 
effective ;  his  conversation  became  stupid  for  all  the  false 
high  spirits  that  inflated  it,  his  very  manners  gauche;  he 
said  and  did  the  wrong  things;  he  was  boring.  Being 
ill  at  ease  and  out  of  harmony  with  himself,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  play  his  part  in  the  trio  as  of  old ;  the  trio, 
indeed,  had  now  divided  itself — one  against  two. 

That  is,  keenly,  and  in  spite  of  himself,  he  watched  the 
other  two ;  he  watched  them  as  a  detective  does,  for  evi- 
dence. He  became  uncannily  observant.  And  since  Tony 
was  especially  amusing  that  evening,  Lettice,  moreover, 
apparently  absorbed  in  his  stimulating  talk,  Tom's  alter- 
nate gaucheries  and  silence  passed  unnoticed,  certainly 
uncommented.  In  schoolboy  phraseology,  Tom  felt  out 

242 


The  Wave  243 

of  it.  His  presence  was  tolerated — as  by  favor.  The 
two  enjoyed  a  mutual  understanding  from  which  he  was 
excluded,  a  private  intimacy  that  was  spiritual,  mental, — 
physical. 

He  even  found  it  in  him  for  the  first  time  to  marvel 
that  Lettice  had  ever  cared  for  him  at  all.  Beside  Tony's 
brilliance  he  felt  himself  cheaper,  almost  insignificant. 
He  felt  old.  .  .  .  His  pain,  moreover,  was  twofold:  his 
own  selfish  sense  of  personal  loss  produced  one  kind  of 
anguish,  but  the  possibility  that  she  was  playing  false 
produced  another.  The  first  was  manageable :  the  second 
beyond  words  appalling. 

Against  this  background  of  emotional  disturbance  he 
watched  the  evening  pass.  It  developed  as  the  hours 
moved.  Tony,  he  noticed,  though  so  full  of  life,  betrayed 
a  certain  malaise  towards  himself  and  avoided  that  direct 
meeting  of  the  eye  that  was  his  characteristic.  More  and 
more,  especially  when  Mrs.  Haughstone  had  betaken  her- 
self to  bed,  and  the  trio  sat  in  the  cooler  garden  alone, 
Tom  became  aware  of  a  subtle  intimacy  between  his  com- 
panions that  resented  all  his  efforts  to  include  him  too. 
It  was,  moreover — his  heart  warned  him  now, — an  affec- 
tionate, a  natural  intimacy,  built  upon  many  an  hour  of 
intercourse  while  he  was  yet  in  England,  and,  worst  of  all, 
that  it  was  secret.  But  more — he  realized  that  the  miss- 
ing part  of  her  was  now  astir,  touched  into  life  by  an- 
other, and  a  younger,  man.  It  was  ardent  and  untamed. 
It  had  awakened  from  its  slumber.  He  even  fancied  that 
something  of  challenge  flashed  from  her,  though  without 
definite  words  or  gesture. 

With  a  degree  of  acute  perception  wholly  new  to  him, 
he  watched  the  evidence  of  inner  proximity,  yet  watched 
it  automatically  and  certainly  not  meanly  nor  with  sly- 
ness. The  evidence  that  was  sheer  anguish  thrust  itself 
upon  him.  His  eyes  had  opened;  he  could  not  help 
himself. 

But  he  watched  himself  as  well.    Only  at  moments  was 


244  The  Wave 

he  aware  of  this — a  kind  of  higher  Self,  detached  from 
shifting  moods,  looked  on  calmly  and  took  note.  This 
Self,  placed  high  above  the  stage,  looked  down.  It  was 
a  self  that  never  acted,  never  wept  or  suffered,  never 
changed.  It  was  secure,  superb,  it  was  divine.  Its  very 
existence  in  him  hitherto  had  been  unknown.  He  was 
now  vividly  aware  of  it.  It  was  the  Onlooker. 

The  explanation  of  his  mysterious  earlier  moods  of- 
fered itself  with  a  clarity  that  was  ghastly.  Watching  the 
happiness  of  these  two,  he  recalled  a  hundred  subcon- 
scious hints  he  had  disregarded  :  the  empty  letter  at  Alex- 
andria, her  dislike  of  being  alone  with  him,  the  increasing 
admiration  for  his  cousin,  a  thousand  things  she  had  left 
unsaid,  above  all,  the  exuberance  and  radiant  joy  that 
Tony's  presence  woke  in  her.  The  gradual  but  significant 
change,  the  singular  vision  in  the  desert,  his  own  fore- 
taste of  misery  as  he  watched  the  Theban  Hills  from  the 
balcony  of  his  bedroom — all,  all  returned  upon  him,  ar- 
ranged in  a  phalanx  of  neglected  proofs  that  the  new  Tom 
offered  cruelly  to  the  old.  But  it  was  her  slight  exaspera- 
tion, her  evasion  when  he  questioned  her,  that  capped  the 
damning  list.  And  her  silence  was  the  culminating  proof. 

Then,  inexplicably,  he  shifted  to  the  other  side ,  that 
the  old,  the  normal  Tom  presented  generously  to  the  new. 
While  this  reaction  lasted  he  laughed  away  the  evidence, 
and  honestly  believed  he  was  exaggerating  trifles.  The 
new  zest  that  Egypt  woke  in  her — God  bless  her  sweet- 
ness and  simplicity — was  only  natural;  if  Tony  stimu- 
lated the  intellectual  side  of  her,  he  could  feel  only  pleas- 
ure that  her  happiness  was  thus  increased.  She  was  in- 
nocent. He  could  not  possibly  doubt  or  question,  and 
shame  flooded  him  till  he  felt  himself  the  meanest  man 
alive.  Suspicion  was  no  normal  part  of  him.  He  crushed 
it  out  of  sight,  scotched  as  he  thought  to  death.  To  lose 
belief  in  her  would  mean  to  lose  belief  in  everybody.  It 
was  inconceivable.  Every  instinct  in  him  repelled  the 


The  Wave  245 

vile  suggestion.     And  while  this  reaction  lasted  his  se- 
curity returned. 

Only  it  did  not  last;  it  merged  invariably  into  its  op- 
posite again;  and  the  alternating  confidence  and  doubt 
produced  a  state  of  confused  emotion  that  contained  the 
nightmare  touch  in  its  most  essential  form.  The  Wave 
hung,  poised  above  him — but  would  not  fall — quite  yet. 

It  was  later  in  the  evening  that  the  singular  intensity 
introduced  itself  into  all  they  said  and  did,  hanging  above 
them  like  a  cloud.  It  came  curiously,  was  suddenly  there 
— without  hint  or  warning.  Tom  had  the  feeling  that 
they  moved  amid  invisible  dangers,  almost  as  though  ex- 
plosives lay  hidden  near  them,  ready  any  moment  to  bring 
destruction  with  a  sudden  crash — final  destruction  of  the 
happy  preexisting  conditions.  The  menace  of  a  thunder- 
cloud approached  as  in  his  childhood's  dream;  disaster 
lurked  behind  the  quiet  outer  show.  The  Wave  was 
rising  almost  audibly. 

For  upon  their  earlier  mood  of  lighter  kind  that  had 
preceded  Mrs.  Haughstone's  exit,  and  then  upon  the  more 
serious  talk  that  followed  in  the  garden,  there  descended 
abruptly  this  uncanny  quiet  that  one  and  all  obeyed.  The 
contrast  was  most  marked.  Tom  remembered  how  their 
voices  hushed  upon  a  given  moment,  how  they  looked 
about  them  during  the  brief  silence  following,  peering 
into  the  luminous  darkness  as  though  some  one  watched 
them — and  how  Madame  Jaretzka,  remarking  on  the 
chilly  air,  then  rose  suddenly  and  led  the  way  into  the 
house.  Both  she  and  Tony,  he  remembered,  had  been 
restless  for  some  little  time.  "It's  chilly.  We  shall  be 
cozier  indoors,"  she  said  lightly,  and  moved  away,  fol- 
lowed by  his  cousin. 

Tom  lingered  a  few  minutes,  watching  them  pass  along 
the  verandah  to  the  room  beyond.  He  did  not  like  the 
change.  In  the  open  air,  the  intimacy  he  dreaded  was 
less  suggested  than  in  the  friendly  familiarity  of  a  room, 


246  The  Wave 

her  room ;  out  of  doors  it  was  more  diffused ;  he  pre- 
ferred the  remoteness  that  the  garden  lent.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  glad  of  a  moment  by  himself — though  a  mo- 
ment only.  He  wanted  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  face 
things  as  they  were.  There  should  be  no  "shuffling,"  if  he 
possibly  could  prevent  it. 

He  lingered  with  his  cigarette  behind  the  others.  A  red 
moon  hung  above  the  mournful  hills,  and  the  stars  shone 
in  their  myriads.  Both  lay  reflected  in  the  quiet  river. 
The  night  was  very  peaceful.  No  wind  stirred.  .  .  .  And 
he  strove  to  force  the  exquisite  Egyptian  silence  upon  the 
turmoil  that  was  in  his  soul — to  gain  that  inner  silence 
through  which  the  voice  of  truth  might  whisper  clearly 
to  him.  The  poise  he  craved  lay  all  about  him  in  the 
solemn  stillness,  in  stars  and  moon  and  desert ;  the  temple 
columns  had  it,  the  steadfast,  huge  Colossi  waiting  for  the 
sun,  the  bleak  stone  hills,  the  very  Nile  herself.  Some- 
thing of  their  immemorial  resolution  and  resistance  he 
might  even  borrow  for  his  little  tortured  self  .  .  .  before 
he  followed  his  companions.  For  it  came  to  him  that 
within  the  four  walls  of  her  room  all  that  he  dreaded 
must  reveal  itself  in  such  concentrated,  visible  form  that 
he  no  longer  would  be  able  to  deny  it :  the  established  in- 
timacy, the  sweetness,  the  desire,  and — the  love. 

He  made  this  effort,  be  it  recorded  in  his  favor,  and 
made  it  bravely ;  while  every  minute  that  he  left  his  com- 
panions undisturbed  was  a  long-drawn  torment  in  his 
heart.  For  he  plainly  recognized  now  a  danger  he  knew 
not  how  he  might  adequately  meet.  Here  was  the 
strangeness  of  it :  that  he  did  not  distrust  Lettice,  nor  felt 
resentment  against  Tony.  Why  this  was  so,  or  what  the 
meaning  was,  he  could  not  fathom.  He  felt  vaguely  that 
Lettice,  like  himself,  was  the  plaything  of  greater  forces 
than  she  knew,  and  that  her  perplexing  conduct  was  based 
upon  disharmony  in  herself  beyond  her  possible  control. 
Some  part  of  her,  long  hidden,  had  emergec1  in  Egypt, 
brought  out  by  the  deep  mystery  and  passion  of  the  cli- 


The  Wave  247 

mate,  by  its  burning,  sensuous  splendor :  its  magic  drove 
her  along  unconsciously.  There  were  two  persons  in 
her. 

It  may  have  been  absurd  to  divide  the  woman  and  the 
mother  as  he  did;  probably  it  was  false  psychology  as 
well;  where  love  is,  mother  and  woman  blend  divinely 
into  one.  He  did  not  know :  it  seemed,  as  yet,  they  had 
not  blended.  He  was  positive  only  that,  while  part  of 
her  was  going  from  him,  if  not  already  gone,  the  rest, 
and  the  major  part,  was  true  and  loyal,  loving  and  mar- 
velously  tender.  The  conflict  of  these  certainties  left 
hopeless  disorder  in  every  corner  of  his  being.  .  .  . 

Tossing  away  his  cigarette,  he  moved  slowly  up  the 
verandah  steps.  The  Wave  was  never  more  sensibly  be- 
hind, beneath  him,  than  in  that  moment.  He  rose  upon 
it,  it  was  under  him,  he  felt  its  lift  and  irresistible  mo- 
mentum ;  almost  it  bore  him  up  the  steps.  For  he  meant 
to  face  whatever  came;  deliberately  he  welcomed  the 
hurt ;  it  had  to  come ;  beyond  the  suffering  beckoned  some 
marvelous  joy,  pure  as  the  dawn  beyond  the  cruel  desert. 
There  was  in  him  that  rich,  sweet  pain  he  knew  of  old. 
It  beckoned  and  allured  him  even  while  he  shrank.  Alone 
the  supreme  Self  in  him  looked  calmly  on,  seeming  to 
lessen  the  part  that  trembled  and  knew  fear. 

Then,  as  he  neared  the  room,  a  sound  of  music  floated 
out  to  meet  him — Tony  was  singing  to  his  own  accom- 
paniment. Lettice,  upon  a  sofa  in  the  corner,  looked  up 
and  placed  a  finger  on  her  lips,  then  closed  her  eyes  again, 
listening  to  the  song.  And  Tom  was  glad  she  closed  her 
eyes,  glad  also  that  Tony's  back  was  towards  him,  for 
as  he  crossed  the  threshold  a  singular  impulse  took  pos- 
session of  his  legs  and  he  was  only  just  able  to  stop  a 
ridiculous  movement  of  shuffling  with  his  feet  upon  the 
matting.  Quickly  he  gained  a  sofa  by  the  window 
and  dropped  down  upon  it,  watching,  listening.  Tony 
was  singing  softly,  yet  with  deep  expression  half  sup- 
pressed : 


248  The  Wave 

We  were  young,  we  were  merry,  we  were  very  very  wise, 

And  the  door  stood  open  at  our  feast, 
When  there  passed  us  a  woman  with  the  West  in  her  eyes, 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 

O,  still  grew  the  hearts  that  were  beating  so  fast, 

The  loudest  voice  was  still. 
The  jest  died  away  on  our  lips  as  they  passed, 

And  the  rays  of  July  struck  chill. 

He  sang  the  words  with  an  odd,  emphatic  slowness, 
turning  to  look  at  Lettice  between  the  phrases.  He  was 
not  yet  aware  that  Tom  had  entered.  The  tune  held  all 
the  pathos  and  tragedy  of  the  world  in  it.  "Both  going 
the  same  way  together,"  he  said  in  a  suggestive  under- 
tone, his  hands  playing  a  soft  running  chord.  "The  man 
and  the  woman,"  he  again  leaned  in  her  direction.  "It's 
a  pregnant  opening,  don't  you  think  ?  The  music  I  found 
in  the  very  depths  of  me  somewhere.  Lettice,  I  believe 
you're  asleep!"  he  whispered  tenderly  after  a  second's 
pause. 

She  opened  her  eyes  then  and  looked  meaningly  at  him. 
Tom  made  no  sound,  no  movement.  He  saw  only  her 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Tony,  whose  last  sentence,  using 
the  Christian  name  so  softly,  rang  on  inside  him  like  the 
clanging  of  a  prison  bell. 

"Sing  another  verse  first,"  said  Madame  Jaretzka 
quietly,  "and  we'll  pass  judgment  afterwards.  But  I 
wasn't  asleep,  was  I,  Tom  ?"  And,  following  the  direction 
of  her  eyes,  Tony  started,  and  turned  round.  "I  shut  my 
eyes  to  listen  better,"  she  added,  almost  impatiently. 
"Now,  please  go  on ;  we  want  to  hear  the  rest." 

"Of  course,"  said  Tom,  in  as  natural  a  tone  as  possible. 
"Of  course  we  do.  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"Mary  Coleridge — the  words,"  replied  Tony,  turning 
to  the  piano  again.  "In  a  moment  of  aberration  I  thought 

I  could  write  the  music  for  it "  The  softness  and 

passion  had  left  his  voice  completely. 

"Oh,  the  tune  is  yours  ?" 


The  Wave  249 

His  cousin  nodded.  There  was  a  little  frown  between 
the  watching  eyes  upon  the  sofa.  "Tom,  you  mustn't  in- 
terrupt; it  spoils  the  mood — the  rhythm,"  and  she  again 
asked  Tony  to  go  on.  The  difference  in  the  two  tones  she 
used  was  too  obvious  to  be  missed  by  any  man  who  heard 
them — the  veiled  exasperation  and — the  tenderness. 

Tony  obeyed  at  once.  Striking  a  preliminary  chord  as 
the  stool  swung  round,  he  said  for  Tom's  benefit,  "To 
me  there's  tragedy  in  the  words,  real  tragedy,  so  I  tried 
to  make  the  music  fit  it.  Madame  Jaretzka  doesn't  agree." 
He  glanced  towards  her ;  her  eyes  were  closed  again ,  her 
face,  Tom  thought,  was  like  a  mask.  Tony  did  not  this 
time  use  the  little  name. 

The  next  verse  began,  then  suddenly  broke  off.  The 
voice  seemed  to  fail  the  singer.  "I  don't  like  this  one," 
he  exclaimed,  a  suspicion  of  trembling  in  his  tone.  "It's 
rather  too  awful.  Death  comes  in,  the  bread  at  the  feast 
turns  black,  the  hound  falls  down — and  so  on.  There's 
general  disaster.  It's  too  tragic,  rather.  I'll  sing  the  last 
verse  instead." 

"I  want  to  hear  it,  Tony.  I  insist,"  came  the  command 
from  the  sofa.  "I  want  the  tragic  part." 

To  Tom  it  seemed  precisely  as  though  the  voice  had 
said,  "I  want  to  see  Tom  suffer.  He  knows  the  meaning 
of  it.  It's  right,  it's  good,  it's  necessary  for  him." 

Tony  obeyed.    He  sang  both  verses : 

The  cups  of  red  wine  turned  pale  on  the  board, 

The  white  bread  black  as  soot. 
The  hound  forgot  the  hand  of  his  lord, 

She  fell  down  at  his  foot. 

Low  let  me  lie,  where  the  dead  dog  lies, 

Ere  I  sit  me  down  again  at  a  feast, 
When  there  passes  a  woman  with  the  West  in  her  eyes, 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 

The  song  stopped  abruptly,  the  music  died  away,  there 
was  an  interval  of  silence  no  one  broke.  Tom  had  Hs- 


250  The  Wave 

tened  spellbound.  He  was  no  judge  of  poetry  or  music ; 
he  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words  exactly ; 
he  knew  only  that  both  words  and  music  expressed  the 
shadow  of  tragedy  in  the  air  as  though  they  focussed  it 
into  a  tangible  presence.  A  woman  and  a  man  were 
going  in  the  same  direction ;  there  was  an  onlooker.  .  .  . 
A  spontaneous  quality  in  the  words,  moreover,  proved 
that  they  came  burning  from  the  writer's  heart,  and  in 
Tony's  music,  whether  good  or  bad,  there  was  this  same 
proof  of  genuine  feeling.  Judge  or  no  judge,  Tom  was 
positive  of  that.  He  felt  himself  the  looker-on,  an  in- 
truder, almost  a  trespasser. 

This  sense  of  exclusion  grew  upon  him  as  he  listened ; 
it  passed  without  warning  into  the  consciousness  of  a 
mournful,  freezing  isolation.  These  two,  sitting  in  the 
room,  and  separated  from  him  by  a  few  feet  of  colored 
Persian  rug,  were  actually  separated  from  him  by  un- 
bridgeable distance,  wrapped  in  an  intimacy  that  kept  him 
inexorably  outside — because  he  did  not  understand.  He 
almost  knew  an  objective  hallucination — that  the  sofa 
and  the  piano  drew  slightly  nearer  to  one  another, 
whereas  his  own  chair  remained  fixed  to  the  floor,  im- 
movable— outside. 

The  intensity  of  his  sensations  seemed  inexplicable, 
unless  some  reality,  some  truth,  lay  behind  them.  The 
bread  at  the  feast  turned  black  before  his  very  eyes.  But 
another  line  rang  on  with  a  sound  of  ominous  and  poign- 
ant defeat  in  his  heart,  now  lonely  and  bereft :  "Low  let 
me  lie,  where  the  dead  dog  lies  .  .  ."  To  the  onlooker 
the  passing  of  the  pair  meant  death.  .  .  . 

Then,  through  his  confusion,  flashed  clearly  this  bitter 
certitude :  Tom  suddenly  realized  that  after  all  he  knew 
nothing  of  her  real,  her  inner  life;  he  knew  her  only 
through  himself  and  in  himself — knew  himself  in  her. 
Tony,  less  self-centered,  less  rigidly  contained,  had  pene- 
trated her  by  an  understanding  sympathy  greater  than  his 
own.  She  was  unintelligible  to  him,  but  not  to  Tony. 


The  Wave  251 

Tony  had  the  key.  .  .  .  He  had  touched  in  her  what 
hitherto  had  slept. 

As  the  music  wailed  its  dying  cadences  into  this  fateful 
silence,  Tom  met  her  eyes  across  the  room.  They  were 
strong,  and  dark  with  beauty.  He  met  them  with  no 
outer  quailing,  though  with  a  sense  of  drenching  tears 
within.  They  seemed  to  him  the  eyes  of  the  angel  gaz- 
ing through  the  gate.  He  was  outside.  .  .  . 

He  was  the  first  to  break  a  silence  that  had  grown 
unnatural,  oppressive. 

"What  was  it?"  he  asked  again  abruptly.  "Has  it  got 
a  name,  I  mean?"  His  voice  had  the  cry  of  a  wounded 
creature  in  it. 

Tony  struck  an  idle  chord  from  the  piano  as  he  turned 
on  his  stool,  "Oh,  yes,  it's  got  a  name.  It's  called  'Un- 
welcome/ "  And  Tom,  aware  that  he  winced,  was  also 
aware  that  something  in  his  life  congealed  and  stopped 
its  normal  flow. 

"Tony,  you  are  a  genius,"  broke  in  quickly  the  voice 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  "I  always  said  so.  Do 
you  know,  that's  the  most  perfect  accompaniment  I  ever 
heard."  She  spoke  with  feeling,  her  tone  full  of  admira- 
tion. 

Tony  made  no  reply.  He  strummed  softly,  swaying 
to  the  rhythm  of  what  he  played. 

"I  meant  the  setting,"  explained  Lettice,  "the  music. 
It  expresses  the  emotion  of  the  words  too,  too  exactly. 
It's  wonderful!" 

"I  didn't  know  you  composed,"  put  in  Tom  stupidly. 
He  had  to  say  something.  He  saw  them  exchange  a 
glance.  She  smiled.  "When  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"Oh,  the  other  day  in  a  sudden  fit,"  said  Tony,  without 
turning.  "While  you  were  at  Assouan,  I  think." 

"And  the  words,  Tom ;  don't  you  think  they're  wonder- 
ful, too,  and  strange  ?"  asked  Lettice.  "I  find  them  really 
haunting." 

"Y-es,"  he  agreed,  without  looking  at  her.    He  realized 


252  The  Wave 

that  the  lyric,  though  new  to  him,  was  not  new  to  them ; 
they  had  discussed  it  together  already ;  they  felt  the  same 
emotion  about  it ;  it  had  moved  and  stirred  them  before, 
moved  Tony  so  deeply  that  he  had  found  the  music  for  it 
in  the  depths  of  himself.  It  was  an  enigmatical  poem,  it 
now  became  symbolic.  It  embodied  the  present  situation 
somehow  for  him.  Tom  did  not  understand  its  meaning 
as  they  did ;  to  him  it  was  a  foreign  language.  But  they 
knew  the  language  easily.  It  betrayed  their  deep  emo- 
tional intimacy. 

"You  didn't  hear  the  first  part?"  said  Tony. 

"Not  quite.  You  had  just  started — when  I  came  in." 
Tom  easily  read  the  meaning  in  the  question.  And  in  his 
heart  the  name  of  the  poem  repeated  itself  with  significant 
insistence :  Unwelcome!  It  had  come  like  a  blow  in  the 
face  when  Tony  mentioned  it,  bruising  him  internally. 
He  was  bleeding.  .  .  .  He  watched  the  big,  dark  hands 
upon  the  keys  as  they  moved  up  and  down.  It  suddenly 
seemed  they  moved  towards  himself.  There  was  power, 
menace  in  them — there  was  death.  He  felt  as  if  they 
seized — choked  him.  .  .  .  They  grew  stained.  .  .  . 

The  voices  of  his  companions  came  to  him  across  great 
distance;  there  was  a  gulf  between  them,  they  on  that 
side,  he  on  this :  he  was  aware  of  antagonism  between 
himself  and  Tony,  and  between  himself  and  Lettice.  It 
was  very  dreadful;  his  feet  and  hands  were  cold;  he 
shivered.  But  he  gave  no  outer  sign  that  he  was  suffer- 
ing, and  a  desperate  pride — though  he  knew  it  was  but  a 
sham,  a  temporary  pride — came  to  his  assistance.  Yet 
at  the  same  time — he  saw  red.  He  felt  like  a  boy  at 
school  again. 

In  imagination,  then,  he  visualized  swiftly  a  definite 
scene : 

"Tony,"  he  heard  himself  say,  "you're  coming  between 
us.  It  means  all  the  world  to  me,  to  you  it  means  only  a 
passing  game.  If  it  means  more,  it's  time  for  you  to  say 
so  plainly — and  let  her  decide." 


The  Wave  253 

The  situation  seemed  all  cleared  up;  the  clouds  of 
tragedy  dissipated,  the  dreadful  accumulation  of  emotion, 
suspense,  and  hidden  pain,  too  long  suppressed,  too  in- 
tense to  be  borne  another  minute,  discharged  itself  in  an 
immense  relief.  Lettice  at  last  spoke  freely  and  ex- 
plained:  Tony  expressed  regret,  laughing  it  all  away 
with  his  accustomed  brilliance  and  irresponsibility. 

Then,  horribly,  he  heard  Tony  give  a  different  answer 
that  was  far  more  possible  and  likely : 

"I  knew  you  were  great  friends,  but  I  did  not  guess 
there  was  anything  more  between  you.  You  never  told 
me.  I'm  afraid  I — I  am  desperately  fond  of  her,  and  she 
of  me.  We  must  leave  it — yes,  to  her.  There  is  no  other 
way." 

He  was  lounging  on  his  sofa  by  the  window,  his  eyes 
closed,  while  these  thoughts  flashed  through  him.  He 
had  never  known  such  insecurity  before ;  he  felt  sure  of 
nothing;  the  foundations  of  his  being  seemed  sliding  into 
space.  .  .  .  For  it  came  to  him  suddenly  that  he  was  a 
slave  and  that  she  was  set  upon  a  throne  far,  far  beyond 
his  reach.  .  .  . 

Across  the  room,  lit  only  by  a  single  lamp  upon  the 
piano/  the  voices  of  his  companions  floated  to  him,  low 
pitched,  a  ceaseless  murmuring  stream.  He  had  been 
listening  even  while  busy  with  his  own  reflections,  in- 
tently listening.  They  were  still  talking  of  the  poem  and 
the  music,  exchanging  intimate  thoughts  in  the  language 
he  could  not  understand.  They  had  passed  on  to  music 
and  poetry  at  large — dangerous  subjects  by  whose  means 
innocent  words,  donning  an  easy  mask,  may  reveal  pas- 
sionate states  of  mental  and  physical  kind — and  so  to 
personal  revelations  and  confessions  the  apparently  inno- 
cent words  interpreted.  He  heard  and  understood,  yet 
could  not  wholly  follow  because  the  key  was  missing.  He 
could  not  take  part,  much  less  object.  It  was  all  too 
subtle  for  his  mind.  He  listened.  .  .  . 

The  moonlight  fell  upon  his  stretched-out  figure,  but 


254  The  Wave 

left  his  face  in  shadow ;  opening  his  eyes,  he  could  see  the 
others  clearly;  the  intent  expression  upon  her  face  fas- 
cinated him  as  he  watched.  Yet  before  his  eyes  had 
opened,  the  feeling  again  came  to  him  that  they  had 
changed  their  positions  somehow,  and  the  verification  of 
this  feeling  was  the  first  detail  he  then  noticed.  Tony's 
stool  was  nearer  to  the  bass  keys  of  the  piano,  while  the 
sofa  Lettice  lay  upon  had  certainly  been  drawn  up  to- 
wards him.  And  Tony  leaned  over  as  he  talked,  bringing 
their  lips  within  whispering  distance.  It  was  all  done 
with  that  open  innocence  which  increased  the  cruelty  of 
it.  Tom  saw  and  heard  and  felt  all  over  his  body.  He 
lay  very  still.  He  half  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"I  do  believe  Tom's  dropped  asleep,"  said  Lettice 
presently.  "No,  don't  wake  him,"  as  Tony  half  turned 
round,  "he's  tired,  poor  boy!" 

But  Torn  could  not  willingly  listen  to  a  private  con- 
versation. 

"I'm  not  asleep,"  he  exclaimed,  "not  a  bit  of  it,"  and 
noticed  that  they  both  were  startled  by  the  suddenness 
and  volume  of  his  voice.  "But  I  am  tired  rather,"  and 
he  got  up,  lit  a  cigarette,  wandered  about  the  room  a  min- 
ute, and  then  leaned  out  of  the  open  window.  "I  think 
I  shall  slip  off  to  bed  soon — if  you'll  forgive  me,  Lettice." 

He  said  it  on  impulse;  he  did  not  really  mean  to  go; 
to  leave  them  alone  together  was  beyond  his  strength. 
She  merely  nodded.  The  woman  he  had  felt  so  proudly 
would  put  Tony  in  his  place — nodded  consent ! 

"I  must  be  going  too  in  a  moment,"  Tony  murmured. 
He  meant  it  even  less  than  Tom  did.  He  shifted  his  stool 
towards  the  middle  of  the  piano  and  began  to  strum  again. 

"Sing  something  more  first,  Tony ;  I  love  your  ridicu- 
lous voice." 

Tom  heard  it  behind  his  back ;  it  was  said  half  in  ban- 
ter, half  in  earnest;  yet  the  tone  pierced  him.  She  used 
the  private  language  she  and  Tony  understood.  The  little 
sentence  was  a  paraphrase  that,  being  interpreted,  said 


The  Wave  255 

plainly :  "He'll  go  off  presently ;  then  we  can  talk  again 
of  the  things  we  love  together — the  things  he  doesn't 
understand." 

With  his  face  thrust  into  the  cold  night  air  Tom  felt 
the  blood  go  throbbing  in  his  temples.  He  watched  the 
moonlight  on  the  sandy  garden  paths.  The  leaves  were 
motionless,  the  river  crept  past  without  a  murmur,  the 
dark  hills  rose  out  of  the  distant  desert  like  a  wave. 
There  was  faint  fragrance  as  of  wild  flowers,  very  tiny, 
very  soft.  But  he  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  gliding  river, 
rather  than  on  those  dark  hills,  crowded  with  their  an- 
cient dead.  For  he  felt  as  if  some  one  watched  him  from 
their  dim  recesses.  It  almost  seemed  that  from  those 
bleak,  lonely  uplands,  silent  amid  the  stream  of  hurrying 
life  to-day,  came  his  pain,  his  agony.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it ;  the  strange,  sinister  mood  he  had  known  already 
once  before,  stole  out  from  the  desolate  Theban  hills  and 
mastered  him  again.  Any  moment,  if  he  looked  up,  he 
would  meet  eyes — eyes  that  gazed  with  dim,  yet  definite 
recognition  into  his  own  across  the  night.  They  would 
gaze  up  at  him,  for  somehow  he  was  placed  above  them. 
.  .  .  He  had  known  all  this  before,  this  very  situation, 
these  very  actors — he  now  looked  down  upon  it  all,  a 
scene  mapped  out  below  him.  There  were  two  pictures 
that  yet  were  one. 

"What  shall  it  be?"  the  voice  of  Tony  floated  past  him 
through  the  open  window. 

"The  gold  and  ambra  one — I  like  best  of  all,"  her  voice 
followed  like  a  sigh  across  the  air.  "But  only  once — it 
makes  me  cry." 

To  Tom,  as  he  heard  it,  came  the  shattering  conviction 
that  the  words  were  not  in  English,  and  that  it  was  neither 
Lettice  nor  his  cousin  who  had  used  them.  Reality 
melted;  he  felt  himself — brain,  heart,  and  body — drop- 
ping down  through  empty  space  as  though  towards  the 
speakers.  This  was  another  language  that  they  spoke 
together.  He  had  forgotten  it.  ...  They  were  them- 


256  The  Wave 

selves,  yet  different.  Amazement  seized  him.  A  familiar- 
ity, intense  with  breaking  pain,  came  with  it.  Where,  O 
where  .  .  .? 

He  heard  the  music  steal  past  him  towards  these  The- 
ban  hills. 

His  heart  was  no  longer  beating;  it  was  still.  Life 
paused,  as  it  were,  to  let  the  voice  insert  itself  into  an- 
other setting,  out  of  due  place,  yet  at  the  same  time  true 
and  natural.  An  intolerable  sweetness  in  the  music  swept 
him.  But  there  was  anguish  too.  The  pain  and  pleasure 
were  but  one  sensation.  .  .  .  All  the  melancholy  blue  and 
gold  of  Egypt's  beauty  passed  in  that  singing  before  his 
soul,  and  something  of  transcendent  value  he  had  lost, 
something  ancient  it  seemed,  as  those  mournful  Theban 
hills,  rose  with  it.  It  was  offered  to  him  again.  He  saw 
it  rise  within  his  reach — once  more.  Upon  this  tide  of 
blue  and  of  gold  it  floated  to  his  hand,  could  he  but  seize 
it.  ...  Emotion  then  blocked  itself  through  sheer  ex- 
cess ;  the  tide  receded,  the  vision  dimmed,  the  gold  turned 
dull  and  faded,  the  music  and  the  singing  ceased.  Yet  an 
instant,  above  the  pain,  Tom  had  caught  a  flush  of  inex- 
plicable happiness.  Beyond  the  anguish  he  felt  joy  break- 
ing upon  him  like  the  dawn.  .  .  . 

"Joy  cometh  in  the  morning,"  he  remembered,  with  a 
feeling  as  of  some  modern  self  and  sanity  returning.  He 
had  been  some  one  else;  he  now  was  Tom  again.  The 
pain  belonged  to  that  "some  one  else."  It  must  be  faced, 
for  the  final  outcome  would  be  joy.  .  .  . 

He  turned  round  into  the  room  now  filled  with  tense 
silence  only. 

"Tony,"  he  asked,  "what  on  earth  was  it  ?"  His  voice 
was  low,  but  did  not  tremble.  The  atmosphere  seemed 
drawn  taut  before  him  as  though  it  must  any  instant  split 
open  upon  a  sound  of  crying.  He  saw  Lettice  on  her  sofa, 
the  lamplight  in  her  wide-open  eyes  that  shone  with  mois- 
ture. She  looked  at  Tony,  not  at  him.  There  was  no  de- 
cipherable expression  on  her  face.  That  elusive  eastern 


The  Wave  257 

touch  hung  mysteriously  about  her.  It  was  all  half  fabu- 
lous. 

Without  turning  Tony  answered  shortly:  "Oh,  just 
a  little  native  Egyptian  song — very  old — dug  up  some- 
where, I  believe,"  and  he  strummed  softly  to  himself,  as 
though  he  did  not  wish  to  talk  more  about  it. 

Lettice  watched  him  for  several  minutes,  then  fixed  her 
eyes  on  Tom ;  they  stared  at  each  other  across  the  room ; 
her  expression  was  enigmatical,  yet  he  read  resolution 
into  it,  a  desire  and  a  purpose.  He  returned  her  gaze  with 
a  baffled  yearning,  thinking  how  mysteriously  beautiful 
she  looked,  frail,  elusive,  infinitely  desirable,  yet  hope- 
lessly beyond  his  reach.  .  .  .  And  then  he  saw  the  eyelids 
lower  slightly,  and  a  shadowy  darkness  like  a  veil  fall 
over  her.  A  smile  stole  down  towards  the  lips.  Terror 
and  fascination  caught  him;  he  turned  away  lest  she 
should  reach  his  secret  and  communicate  her  own.  She 
looked  right  through  him.  Words,  too,  were  spoken, 
ordinary  modern  words,  though  he  did  not  hear  them 
properly:  "You're  tired  out  .  .  .  you  know.  There's 
no  need  to  be  formal  where  I'm  concerned  .  .  ."  or  some- 
thing similar.  He  listened,  but  he  did  not  hear;  they  were 
remote,  unreal,  not  audible  quite;  they  were  far  away 
in  space.  He  was  only  aware  that  the  voice  was  tender 
and  the  tone  was  very  soft.  .  .  . 

He  made  no  answer.  The  pain  in  her  leaped  forth  to 
clasp  his  own,  it  seemed.  For  in  that  instant  he  knew 
that  the  joy  divined  a  little  while  before  was  her,  but 
also  that  he  must  wade  through  intolerable  pain  to 
reach  it. 

The  spell  was  broken.  The  balance  of  the  evening,  a 
short  half  hour  at  the  most,  was  uninspired,  even  awk- 
ward. There  was  strain  in  the  atmosphere,  cross-pur- 
poses, these  purposes  unfulfilled;  each  word  and  action 
charged  with  emotion  that  was  unable  to  express  itself. 
A  desultory  talk  between  Tony  and  his  hostess  seemed 


258  The  Wave 

to  struggle  through  clipped  sentences  that  hung  in  the  air 
as  though  afraid  to  complete  themselves.  The  unfinished 
phrases  floated,  but  dared  not  come  to  earth;  they  gath- 
ered but  remained  undelivered.  Tom  had  divined  the 
deep,  essential  intimacy  at  last,  and  his  companions 
knew  it. 

He  lay  silent  on  his  sofa  by  the  window,  or  nearly 
silent.  The  moonlight  had  left  him,  he  lay  in  shadow. 
Occasionally  he  threw  in  words,  asked  a  question,  ven- 
tured upon  a  criticism ;  but  Lettice  either  did  not  hear  or 
did  not  feel  sufficient  interest  to  respond.  She  ignored 
his  very  presence,  though  readily,  eagerly  forthcoming  to 
the  smallest  sign  from  Tony.  She  hid  herself  with  Tony 
behind  the  shadowy  screen  of  words  and  phrases. 

Tony  himself  was  different  too,  however.  There  was 
acute  disharmony  in  the  room,  where  a  little  time  before 
there  had  been  at  least  an  outward  show  of  harmony.  A 
heaviness  as  of  unguessed  tragedy  lay  upon  all  three,  not 
only  upon  Tom.  Spontaneous  gaiety  was  gone  out  of  his 
cousin,  whose  attempts  to  be  his  normal  self  became 
forced  and  unsuccessful.  He  sought  relief  by  hiding  him- 
self behind  his  music,  and  his  choice,  though  natural 
enough,  seemed  half  audacious  and  half  challenging — the 
choice  of  a  devious  soul  that  shirked  fair  open  fight  and 
felt  at  home  in  subterfuge.  From  Grieg's  Ich  Hebe  Dich 
he  passed  to  other  tender,  passionate  fragments  Tom  did 
not  recognize  by  name  yet  understood  too  well,  realizing 
that  sense  of  ghastly  comedy,  and  almost  of  the  ludicrous, 
which  ever  mocks  the  tragic. 

For  Tony  certainly  acknowledged  by  his  attitude  the 
same  threatening  sense  of  doom  that  lay  so  heavy  upon 
his  cousin's  heart.  There  was  presentiment  and  menace 
in  every  minute  of  that  brief  half-hour.  Never  had  Tom 
seen  his  gay  and  careless  cousin  in  such  guise:  he  was 
restless,  silent,  intense  and  inarticulate.  "He  gives  her 
what  I  cannot  give,"  Tom  faced  the  situation.  "They 
understand  one  another  .  .  It's  not  her  fault  .  .I'm 


The  Wave  259 

old,  I'm  dull.  She's  found  a  stronger  interest.  .  .  .  The 
bigger  claim  at  last  has  come !" 

They  brewed  their  cocoa  on  the  spirit-lamp,  they 
munched  their  biscuits,  they  said  good-night  at  length, 
and  Tom  walked  on  a  few  paces  ahead,  impatient  to  be 
gone.  He  did  not  want  to  go  home  with  Tony,  while  yet 
he  could  not  leave  him  there.  He  longed  to  be  alone  and 
think.  Tony's  hotel  was  but  a  hundred  yards  away.  He 
turned  and  called  to  him.  He  saw  them  saying  good- 
night at  the  foot  of  the  verandah  steps.  Lettice  was  look- 
ing up  into  his  cousin's  face.  .  .  . 

They  went  off  together.  "Night,  night,"  cried  Tony, 
as  he  presently  turned  up  the  path  to  his  own  hotel.  "See 
you  in  the  morning/' 

And  Tom  walked  down  the  silent  street  alone.  On  his 
skin  he  still  felt  her  fingers  he  had  clasped  two  minutes 
before.  But  his  eyes  saw  only — her  face  and  figure  as 
she  stood  beside  his  cousin  on  the  steps.  For  he  saw  her 
looking  up  into  his  eyes  as  once  before  on  the  lawn  of  her 
English  bungalow  four  months  ago.  And  Tony's  two 
great  hands  were  laid  upon  her  arm. 

"Lettice,  poor  child  .  .  .!"  he  murmured  strangely  to 
himself.  For  he  knew  that  her  suffering  and  her  deep 
perplexity  were  somewhere,  somehow  almost  equal  to  his 
own. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

HE  walked  down  the  silent  street  alone.  .  .  .  How 
like  a  theater  scene  it  was!  Supers  dressed  as 
Arabs  passed  him  without  a  word  or  sign ;  the  Nile  was 
a  painted  back-cloth;  the  columns  of  the  Luxor  Temple 
hung  on  canvas.  The  memory  of  a  London  theater  flitted 
through  his  mind.  .  .  .  He  was  playing  a  part  upon  the 
stage,  but  for  the  second  time,  and  this  second  perform- 
ance was  better  than  the  first,  different  too,  a  finer  in- 
terpretation as  it  were.  He  could  not  manage  it  quite,  but 
he  must  play  it  out  in  order  to  know  joy  and  triumph  at 
the  other  end. 

This  sense  of  the  theater  was  over  everything.  How 
still  and  calm  the  night  was,  the  very  stars  were  painted 
on  the  sky,  the  lights  were  low,  there  lay  a  hush  upon  the 
audience.  In  his  heart,  like  a  weight  of  metal,  there  was 
sadness,  deep  misgiving,  sense  of  loss.  His  life  was  fad- 
ing visibly ;  it  threatened  to  go  out  in  darkness.  Yet,  like 
Ra,  great  deity  of  this  ancient  land,  it  would  suffer  only  a 
temporary  eclipse,  then  rise  again  triumphant  and  re- 
juvenated as  Osiris.  ..." 

He  walked  up  the  sweep  of  sandy  drive  to  the  hotel  and 
went  through  the  big  glass  doors.  The  huge,  brilliant 
building  swallowed  him.  Crowds  of  people  moved  to  and 
fro,  chattering  and  laughing,  the  women  gaily,  fashion- 
ably dressed ;  the  band  played  with  that  extravagant  aban- 
don hotels  demanded.  The  contrast  between  the  dark, 
quiet  street  and  this  busy  modern  scene  made  him  feel  it 
was  early  in  the  evening,  instead  of  close  on  midnight. 

He  was  whirled  up  to  his  lofty  room  above  the  world. 
He  flung  himself  upon  his  bed ;  no  definite  thought  was 
in  him;  he  was  utterly  exhausted.  There  was  a  vicious 
aching  in  his  nerves,  his  muscles  were  flaccid  and  un- 

260 


The  Wave  261 

strung;  a  numbness  was  in  his  brain  as  well.  But  in  the 
heart  there  was  vital  energy.  For  his  heart  seemed  al- 
ternately full  and  empty ;  all  the  life  he  had  was  centered 
there. 

And,  lying  on  his  bed  in  the  darkened  room,  he  sighed, 
as  though  he  struggled  for  breath.  The  recent  strain  had 
been  even  more  tense  than  he  had  guessed — the  sup- 
pressed emotion,  the  prolonged  and  difficult  effort  at  self- 
control,  the  passionate  yearning  that  was  denied  relief  in 
words  and  action.  His  entire  being  now  relaxed  itself; 
and  his  physical  system  found  relief  in  long,  deep  sighs. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  motionless,  trying  vainly  not  to 
feel.  He  would  have  welcomed  instantaneous  sleep — ten 
hours  of  refreshing,  dreamless  sleep.  If  only  he  could 
prevent  himself  thinking,  he  might  drop  into  blissful 
unconsciousness.  It  was  chiefly  forgetfulness  he  craved. 
A  few  minutes,  and  he  would  perhaps  have  slipped  across 
the  border — when  something  startled  him  into  sudden  life 
again.  He  became  acutely  wakeful.  His  nerves  tingled, 
the  blood  rushed  back  into  the  brain.  He  remembered 
Tony's  letter — returned  from  Assouan.  A  moment  later 
he  had  turned  the  light  on,  and  was  reading  it.  It  was, 
of  course,  several  days  old  already: 

SAVOY  HOTEL, 
LUXOR. 

DEAR  OLD  TOM — What  I  am  going  to  say  may  annoy  you,  but 
I  think  it  best  that  it  should  be  said,  and  if  I  am  all  wrong  you 
must  tell  me.  I  have  seldom  liked  any  one  as  much  as  I  like  you, 
and  I  want  to  preserve  our  affection  to  the  end. 

The  trouble  is  this : — I  can't  help  feeling — I  felt  it  at  the  Bun- 
galow, in  London  too,  and  even  heard  it  said  by  some  one  whom, 
possibly,  you  may  guess — that  you  were  very  fond  of  her,  and  that 
she  was  of  you.  Various  little  things  said,  and  various  small  signs, 
have  strengthened  this  feeling.  Now,  instinctively,  I  have  a  feel- 
ing also  that  she  and  I  have  certain  things  in  common,  and  I 
think  it  quite  possible  that  I  might  have  a  bad  effect  on  her. 

I  do  not  suppose  for  one  moment  that  she  would  ever  care  for 
me,  but,  from  one  or  two  signs  in  her,  I  do  see  possibilities  of  a 
sort  of  playing  with  fire  between  us.  One  feels  these  things  with- 


262  The  Wave 

out  apparent  cause;  and  all  I  can  say  is  that,  absurd  as  it  may 
sound,  I  scent  danger.  To  put  it  quite  frankly,  I  can  imagine  my- 
self becoming  sufficiently  excited  by  her  to  lose  my  head  a  little, 
and  to  introduce  an  element  of  sex  into  our  friendship  which 
might  have  some  slight  effect  on  us  both.  I  don't  mean  anything 
serious,  but,  given  the  circumstances,  I  can  imagine  myself  playing 
the  fool ;  and  the  only  serious  thing  is  that  I  can  picture  myself 
growing  so  fond  of  her  that  I  would  not  think  it  playing  the  fool 
at  the  time. 

Now,  if  I  am  right  in  thinking  that  you  love  her,  it  is  obvious 
that  I  must  put  the  matter  before  you,  Tom,  as  I  am  here  doing. 
I  would  rather  have  your  friendship  than  her  possible  excitement 
— and  I  repeat  that,  absurd  as  it  may  seem,  I  do  scent  the  danger 
of  my  getting  worked  up,  and,  to  some  extent,  infecting  her.  You 
see,  I  know  myself  and  know  the  wildness  of  my  nature.  I  don't 
fool  about  with  women  at  all,  but  I  have  had  affairs  in  my  life 
and  can  judge  of  the  utter  madness  of  which  I  am  capable,  mad- 
ness which,  to  my  mind,  must  affect  and  stimulate  the  person 
towards  whom  it  is  directed. 

On  my  word  of  honor,  Tom,  I  am  not  in  love  with  her  now  at 
all,  and  it  will  not  be  a  bit  hard  for  me  to  clear  out  if  you  want 
me  to.  So  tell  me  quite  straight :  shall  I  make  an  excuse,  as,  for 
example,  that  I  want  to  avoid  her  for  fear  of  growing  too  fond 
of  her,  and  go?  Or  can  we  meet  as  friends?  What  I  want  you 
to  do  is  to  be  with  us  if  we  are  together,  so  that  we  may  try 
to  make  a  real  trinity  of  our  friendship.  I  enjoy  talking  to  her; 
and  I  prefer  you  to  be  with  me  when  I  am  with  her,  really,  believe 
me,  I  do. 

Words  make  things  sound  so  absurd,  but  I  am  writing  like  this 
because  I  feel  the  presence  of  clouds,  almost  of  tragedy,  and  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  why.  I  want  her  friendship  and 
"motherly"  care  badly.  I  want  your  affection  and  friendship  ex- 
ceedingly; but  I  feel  as  though  I  were  unconsciously  about  to 
trouble  your  life  and  hers :  and  I  can  only  suppose  it  is  that  hard- 
working subconsciousness  of  mine  which  sees  the  possibility  of 
my  suddenly  becoming  attracted  to  her,  suddenly  losing  control, 
and  suddenly  being  a  false  friend  to  you  both. 

Now,  Tom,  old  chap,  you  must  prevent  that — either  by  asking 
me  to  keep  away,  or  else  by  making  yourself  a  definite  part  of 
my  friendship  with  her. 

I  want  you  to  say  no  word  to  her  about  this  letter,  and  to 
keep  it  absolutely  between  ourselves ;  and  I  am  very  hopeful — I 
feel  sure  in  fact — that  we  shall  make  the  j  oiliest  trio  in  the 
world. — Yours  ever, 

TONY. 


The  Wave  263 

Tom,  having  read  it  through  without  a  single  stop,  laid 
it  down  upon  his  table  and  walked  round  the  room.  In 
doing  so,  he  passed  the  door.  He  locked  it,  then  paused 
for  a  moment,  listening.  "Why  did  I  lock  it?  What  am 
I  listening  for?"  he  asked  himself.  He  hesitated.  "Oh,  I 
know,"  he  went  on,  "I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed.  Tony 
knows  I  shall  read  this  letter  to-night.  He  might  possibly 

come  up "  He  walked  back  to  the  table  again  slowly. 

"I  couldn't  see  him,"  he  realized :  "it  would  be  impos- 
sible!" If  any  one  knocked,  he  would  pretend  to  be 
asleep.  His  face,  had  he  seen  it  in  the  glass,  was  white 
and  set,  but  there  was  a  curious  shining  in  his  eyes,  and  a 
smile  was  on  the  lips,  though  a  smile  his  stolid  features 
had  never  known  before.  "I  knew  it,"  said  the  Smile,  "I 
knew  it  long  ago." 

His  hand  stretched  out  and  picked  the  letter  up  again. 
But  at  first  he  did  not  look  at  it.  He  looked  round  the 
room  instead,  as  though  he  felt  that  he  was  being  watched, 

as  though  somebody  were  hiding And  then  he  said 

aloud  with  clear  distinctness : 

"Light-blue  eyes,  by  God !    The  light-blue  eyes !" 

The  sound  startled  him  a  little.  He  repeated  the  sen- 
tence in  a  whisper,  varying  the  words.  The  voice  sounded 
like  a  phonograph : 

"Tony's  got  light-blue  eyes !" 

He  sat  down,  then  got  up  again : 

"I  never,  never  thought  of  it !  I  never  noticed.  God ! 
I'm  as  blind  as  a  bat !" 

For  some  minutes  he  stood  motionless,  then  turned  and 
read  the  letter  through  a  second  time,  lingering  on  certain 
phrases,  and  making  curious,  unregulated  gestures  as  he 
did  so.  He  clenched  his  fists,  he  bit  his  lower  lip.  The 
feeling  that  he  was  acting  on  a  stage  had  left  him  now. 
This  was  reality. 

He  walked  over  to  the  balcony,  and  drew  the  cold  night 
air  into  his  lungs.  He  remembered  standing  once  before 
on  this  very  spot,  that  foreboding  of  coming  loneliness  so 


264  The  Wave 

strangely  in  his  heart.  "It's  come,"  he  said  dully  to  him- 
self. "It's  justified.  I  understand  at  last."  And  then  he 
repeated  with  a  deep,  deep  sigh :  "God — how  blind  I've 
been !  He's  taken  her  from  me !  It's  all  confirmed.  He's 
wakened  the  woman  in  her !" 

It  seemed,  then,  he  sought  a  mitigation,  an  excuse — 
for  the  man  who  wrote  it,  his  pal,  his  cousin,  Tony.  He 
wanted  to  exonerate,  if  it  were  possible.  But  the  gen- 
erous impulse  remained  frustrate.  The  plea  escaped  him 
— because  it  was  not  there.  The  falseness  and  insincerity 
were  too  obvious  to  admit  of  any  explanation  in  the  world 
but  one.  He  dropped  into  a  chair,  shocked  into  temporary 
numbness. 

Gradually,  then,  isolated  phrases  blazed  into  prominence 
in  his  mind,  clearest  of  all — that  what  Tony  pretended 
might  happen  in  the  future  had  already  happened  long 
ago.  "I  can  picture  myself  growing  too  fond  of  her," 
meant  "I  am  already  too  fond  of  her."  That  he  might 
lose  his  head  and  "introduce  an  element  of  sex"  was  con- 
science confessing  that  it  had  been  already  introduced. 
He  "scented  danger  .  .  .  tragedy"  because  both  were  in 
the  present — now. 

Tony  hedged  like  any  other  coward.  He  had  already 
gone  too  far,  he  felt  shamed  and  awkward,  he  had  to  put 
himself  right,  as  far  as  might  be,  with  his  trusting,  stupid 
cousin,  so  he  warned  him  that  what  had  already  taken 
place  in  the  past  might  take  place — he  was  careful  to  men- 
tion that  he  had  no  self-control — in  the  future.  He 
begged  the  man  he  had  injured  to  assist  him;  and  the 
method  he  proposed  was  that  old,  well-proved  one  of  as- 
suring the  love  of  a  hesitating  woman — "I'll  tell  her  I'm 
too  fond  of  her,  and  go !" 

The  letter  was  a  sham  and  a  pretense.  Its  assurance, 
too,  was  unmistakable:  Tony  felt  certain  of  his  own 
position.  "I'm  sorry,  old  chap,  but  we  love  each  other. 
Though  I've  sometimes  wondered,  you  never  definitely 
told  me  that  you  did." 


The  Wave  265 

He  read  once  again  the  crudest  phrase  of  all :  "From 
one  or  two  signs  in  her,  I  do  see  possibilities  of  a  sort  of 
playing  with  fire  between  us."  It  was  cleverly  put,  yet 
also  vilely;  he  laid  half  the  burden  of  his  treachery  on 
her.  The  "introduction  of  sex"  was  gently  mentioned 
three  lines  lower  down.  Tony  already  had  an  under- 
standing with  her — which  meant  that  she  had  encouraged 
him.  The  thought  rubbed  like  a  jagged  file  against  his 
heart.  Yet  Tom  neither  thought  this,  nor  definitely  said 
it  to  himself.  He  felt  it;  but  it  was  only  later  that  he 
knew  he  felt  it. 

And  his  mind,  so  heavily  bruised,  limped  badly.  The 
same  thoughts  rose  again  and  again.  He  had  no  notion 
what  he  meant  to  do.  There  was  an  odd,  half-boyish  as- 
tonishment in  him  that  the  accumulated  warnings  of  these 
recent  days  had  not  shown  him  the  truth  before.  How 
could  he  have  known  the  Eyes  of  his  Dream  for  months, 
have  lived  with  them  daily  for  three  weeks — the  light- 
blue  eyes — yet  have  failed  to  recognize  them?  It  passed 
understanding.  Even  the  wavy  feeling  that  had  accom- 
panied Tony's  arrival  in  the  Carpathians — the  Sound 
heard  in  his  bedroom  the  same  night — had  left  him  un- 
seeing and  unaware.  It  seemed  as  if  the  recognition  had 
been  hidden  purposely;  for,  had  he  recognized  them,  he 
would  have  been  prepared ;  he  might  even  have  prevented. 
It  now  dawned  upon  him  slowly  that  the  inevitable  may 
not  be  prevented.  And  the  cunning  of  it  baffled  him 
afresh :  it  was  all  planned  consummately. 

Tom  sat  for  a  long  time  before  the  open  window  in  a 
state  of  half  stupor,  staring  at  the  pictures  his  mind  of- 
fered automatically.  A  deep,  vicious  aching  gnawed 
without  ceasing  at  his  heart :  each  time  a  new  picture  rose 
a  fiery  pang  rose  with  it,  as  though  a  nerve  were 
bared.  .  .  . 

He  drew  his  chair  closer  into  the  comforting  darkness 
of  the  night.  All  was  silent  as  the  grave.  The  stars 
wheeled  overhead  with  their  accustomed  majesty;  he 


266  The  Wave 

could  just  distinguish  the  dim  river  in  its  ancient  bed ;  the 
desert  lay  watchful  for  the  sun ;  the  air  was  sharp  with 
perfume.  Countless  human  emotions  had  these  witnessed 
in  the  vanished  ages,  countless  pains  and  innumerable 
aching  terrors ;  the  emotions  had  passed  away,  yet  the  wit- 
nesses remained,  steadfast,  unchanged,  indifferent.  More- 
over, his  particular  emotion  now  seemed  known  to  them — 
known  to  these  very  stars,  this  desert,  this  immemorial 
river ;  they  witnessed  now  its  singular  repetition.  He  was 
to  experience  it  unto  the  bitter  end  again — yet  somehow 
otherwise.  He  must  face  it  all.  Only  in  this  way  could 
the  joy  at  the  end  of  it  be  reached.  .  .  .  He  must  some- 
how accept  and  understand  .  .  .  This  confused,  unjusti- 
fiable assurance  strengthened  in  him. 

Yet  this  last  feeling  was  so  delicate  that  he  scarcely 
recognized  its  intense  vitality.  The  cruder  sensations 
blinded  him  as  with  thick,  bitter  smoke.  He  was  certain 
of  one  thing  only — that  the  fire  of  jealousy  burned  him 
with  its  atrocious  anguish  ...  an  anguish  he  had  some- 
where known  before. 

Then  presently  there  was  a  change.  This  change  had 
begun  soon  after  he  drew  his  chair  to  the  balcony,  but  he 
had  not  noticed  it.  The  effect  upon  him,  nevertheless, 
had  been  gradually  increasing. 

The  psychological  effects  of  sound,  it  would  seem,  are 
singular.  Even  when  heard  unconsciously,  the  result  con- 
tinues; and  Tom,  hearing  this  sound  unconsciously,  did 
not  realize  at  first  that  another  mood  was  stealing  over 
him.  Then  hearing  became  conscious  hearing — listening. 
The  sound  rose  to  his  ears  from  just  below  his  balcony. 
He  listened.  He  rose,  leaned  over  the  rail,  and  stared. 
The  crests  of  three  tall  palms  immediately  below  him 
waved  slightly  in  the  rising  wind.  But  the  fronds  of  a 
palm  tree  in  the  wind  produce  a  noise  that  is  unlike  the 
rustle  of  any  other  foliage  in  the  world.  It  was  a  curious, 
sharp  rattling  that  he  heard.  It  was  the  Sound. 

His  entire  being  was  at  last  involved — the  Self  that 


The  Wave  267 

used  the  separate  senses.  His  thoughts  swooped  in  an- 
other direction — he  suddenly  fixed  his  attention  upon 
Lettice.  But  it  was  an  inner  attention  of  a  wholesale 
kind: — not  of  the  separate  mind  alone.  And  this  entire 
Self  included  regions  he  did  not  understand.  Mind  was 
the  least  part  of  it.  The  "whole"  of  him  that  now  dealt 
with  Lettice  was  far  above  all  minor  and  partial  means 
of  knowing.  For  it  did  not  judge,  it  only  saw.  It  was, 
perhaps,  the  soul. 

For  it  seemed  the  pain  bore  him  upwards  to  an  unac- 
customed height.  He  stood  for  a  moment  upon  that  level 
where  she  dwelt,  even  as  now  he  stood  on  this  balcony, 
looking  down  upon  the  dim  Egyptian  scene.  She  was 
beside  him ;  he  gazed  into  her  eyes,  even  as  now  he  gazed 
across  to  the  dark  Theban  necropolis  among  the  hills. 
But  also,  in  some  odd  way,  he  stood  outside  himself.  He 
swam  with  her  upon  the  summit  of  the  breaking  Wave, 
lifted  upon  its  crest,  swept  onward  irresistibly.  .  .  .  No 
halt  was  possible  .  .  .  the  inevitable  crash  must  come. 
Yet  she  was  with  him.  They  were  involved  together.  .  .  . 
The  sea!  .  .  . 

The  first  bitterness  passed  a  little;  the  sullen  aching 
with  it.  He  was  aware  of  high  excitement,  of  a  new 
reckless  courage ;  a  touch  of  the  impersonal  came  with  it 
all,  one  Tom  playing  the  part  of  a  spectator  to  another 
Tom — an  onlooker  at  his  own  discomfiture,  at  his  own 
suffering,  at  his  own  defeat. 

This  new,  exalted  state  was  very  marvelous ;  for  while 
it  lasted  he  welcomed  all  that  was  to  come.  "It's  right 
and  necessary  for  me,"  he  recognized ;  "I  need  it,  and  I'll 
face  it.  If  I  refuse  it  I  prove  myself  a  failure — again. 
Besides  .  .  .  she  needs  it  too!" 

For  the  entire  matter  then  turned  over  in  his  mind,  so 
that  he  saw  it  from  a  new  angle  suddenly.  He  looked  at 
it  through  a  keyhole,  as  it  were — the  extent  was  large  yet 
detailed,  the  picture  distant  yet  very  clearly  focused.  It 
lay  framed  within  his  thoughts,  isolated  from  the  rest  of 


268  The  Wave 

life,  isolated  somehow  even  from  the  immediate  present. 
There  was  perspective  in  it.  This  keyhole  was,  perhaps, 
his  deep,  unalterable  love,  but  cleansed  and  purified.  .  .  . 

It  came  to  him  that  she,  and  even  Tony,  too,  in  lesser 
fashion,  were,  like  himself,  the  playthings  of  great  spir- 
itual forces  that  made  alone  for  good.  The  Wave  swept 
all  three  along.  The  attitude  of  his  youth  returned :  the 
pain  was  necessary,  yet  would  bring  inevitable  joy  as  its 
result.  There  had  been  cruel  misunderstanding  on  his 
part  somewhere:  that  misunderstanding  must  be  burnt 
away.  He  saw  Lettice  and  his  cousin  helping  towards 
this  exquisite  deliverance  somehow.  It  was  like  a  mo- 
ment of  clear  vision  from  a  pinnacle.  He  looked  down 
upon  it.  ... 

Lettice  smiled  into  his  eyes  through  half-closed  eyelids. 
Her  smile  was  strangely  distant,  strangely  precious :  she 
was  love  and  tenderness  incarnate;  her  little  hands  held 
both  of  his.  .  .  .  Through  these  very  eyes,  this  smile, 
these  little  hands,  his  pain  would  come;  she  would  her- 
self inflict  it — because  she  could  not  help  herself;  she 
played  her  inevitable  role  as  he  did.  Yet  he  kissed  the 
eyes,  the  hands,  with  an  absolute  self-surrender  he  did 
not  understand,  willing  and  glad  that  they  should  do  their 
worst.  He  had  somewhere  dreadfully  misjudged  her:  he 
must,  he  would  atone.  This  passion  burned  within  him, 
a  passion  of  sacrifice,  of  resignation,  of  free,  big  accep- 
tance. He  felt  joy  at  the  end  of  it  all — the  joy  of  perfect 
understanding  .  .  .  and  forgiveness  ...  on  both 
sides.  .  .  . 

And  the  moment  of  clear  vision  left  its  visible  traces 
in  him  after  it  had  passed.  If  he  felt  contempt  for  his 
cousin,  he  felt  for  Lettice  a  deep  and  searching  pity — 
she  was  divided  against  herself,  she  was  playing  a  part 
she  had  to  play.  The  usual  human  emotions  were  used,  of 
course,  to  convey  the  situation,  yet  in  some  way  he  was 
unable  to  explain,  she  was — being  driven.  In  spite  of 


The  Wave  269 

herself  she  must  inflict  this  pain.  ...  It  was  a  mystery 
he  could  not  solve.  .  .  . 

His  exaltation,  naturally,  was  of  brief  duration.  The 
inevitable  reaction  followed  it.  He  saw  the  situation 
again  as  an  ordinary  man  of  the  world  must  see  it.  ... 
The  fires  of  jealousy  were  alight  and  spreading.  Already 
they  were  eating  away  the  foundations  of  every  generous 
feeling  he  had  -ever  known.  ...  It  was  not,  he  argued, 
that  he  did  not  trust  her.  He  did.  But  he  feared  the  in- 
sidious power  of  infatuation,  he  feared  the  burning 
glamour  of  this  land  of  passionate  mirages,  he  feared  the 
deluding  forces  of  sex  which  his  cousin  had  deliberately 
awakened  in  her  blood — and  other  nameless  things  he 
feared  as  well,  though  he  knew  not  exactly  what  they 
were.  For  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  old  as  dreams, 
old  as  the  river  and  the  menace  of  these  solemn  hills.  .  .  . 
From  childhood  up,  his  own  trust  in  her  truth  and  loyalty 
had  remained  unalterably  fixed,  ingrained  in  the  very  es- 
sence of  his  being.  It  was  more  than  his  relations  with  a 
woman  he  loved  that  were  in  danger :  it  was  his  belief  and 
trust  in  Woman,  focused  in  herself  symbolically,  that 
were  threatened.  ...  It  was  his  belief  in  Life. 

With  Lettice,  however,  he  felt  himself  in  some  way 
powerless  to  deal;  he  could  watch  her,  but  he  could  not 
judge  .  .  .  least  of  all,  did  he  dare  prevent.  .  .  .  Her  at- 
titude he  could  not  know  nor  understand.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  pink  glow  upon  the  desert  before  he  real- 
ized that  a  reply  to  Tony's  letter  was  necessary ;  and  that 
pink  was  a  burning  gold  when  he  knew  his  answer  must 
be  of  such  a  kind  that  Tony  felt  free  to  pursue  his  course 
unchecked.  Tom  held  to  his  strange  belief  to  "Let  it  all 
come,"  he  would  not  try  to  prevent;  he  would  neither 
shirk  nor  dodge.  He  doubted  whether  it  lay  in  his  power 
now  to  hinder  anything,  but  in  any  case  he  would  not  seek 
to  do  so.  Rather  than  block  coming  events,  he  must  en- 
courage their  swift  development.  It  was  the  best,  the 


270  The  Wave 

only  way ;  it  was  the  right  way  too.    He  belonged  to  his 
destination.    He  went  into  his  own  background.  .  .  . 

The  sky  was  alight  from  zenith  to  horizon,  the  Nile 
aflame  with  sunrise,  by  the  time  the  letter  was  written. 
He  read  it  over,  then  hurriedly  undressed,  and  plunged 
into  bed,  A  long,  dreamless  sleep  took  instant  charge  of 
him,  for  he  was  exhausted  to  a  state  of  utter  depletion. 

DEAR  TONY — I  have  read  your  letter  with  the  greatest  sympathy 
— it  was  forwarded  from  Assouan.  It  cost  you  a  good  deal,  I 
know,  to  say  what  you  did,  and  I'm  sure  you  mean  it  for  the  best. 
I  feel  it  like  that  too — for  the  best.  I'm  sorry  you've  been  upset. 

But  it  is  easier  for  you  to  write  than  for  me  to  answer.  Her 
position,  of  course,  is  an  awfully  delicate  one;  and  I  feel — no 
doubt  you  feel  too — that  her  standard  of  conduct  is  higher  than 
that  of  ordinary  women,  and  that  any  issue  between  us — if  there 
is  an  issue  at  all! — should  be  left  to  her  to  decide. 

Nothing  can  touch  my  friendship  with  her;  you  needn't  worry 
about  that.  But  if  you  can  bring  any  added  happiness  into  her 
life,  it  can  only  be  welcomed  by  all  three  of  us.  So  go  ahead, 
Tony,  and  make  her  as  happy  as  you  can.  The  important  things 
are  not  in  our  hands  to  decide  in  any  case;  and,  whatever  hap- 
pens, we  both  agree  on  one  thing:  that  her  happiness  is  the  im- 
portant thing. — Yours  ever,  TOM. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

HE  was  wakened  by  the  white-robed  Arab  house- 
maid with  his  breakfast.  He  felt  hungry,  but  still 
tired ;  sleep  had  not  rested  him.  On  the  tray  an  envelope 
caught  his  eye — sent  by  hand  evidently,  since  it  bore  no 
stamp.  The  familiar  writing  made  the  blood  race  in  his 
veins,  and  the  instant  the  man  was  gone,  he  tore  it  open. 
There  was  burning  in  his  eyes  as  he  read  the  penciled 
words.  He  devoured  it  whole  with  a  kind  of  visual  gulp 
— a  flash :  the  entire  meaning  first,  then  lines,  then  sepa- 
rate words: 

Come  for  lunch,  or  earlier.  My  cousin  is  invited  out,  and 
Tony  has  suddenly  left  for  Cairo  with  his  friends.  I  shall  be 
lonely.  How  beautiful  and  precious  you  were  last  night.  I  long 
for  you  to  comfort  me.  But  don't  efface  yourself  again — it  gave 
me  a  horrid  strange  presentiment — as  if  I  were  losing  you — al- 
most as  if  you  no  longer  trusted  me.  And  don't  forget  that  I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  I  had  such  queer,  long 
dreams  last  night — terrible  rather.  I  must  tell  you.  Do  come. — 
Yours,  L. 

P.  S.    Telephone  if  you  can't. 

Sweetness  and  pain  rose  in  him,  then  numbness.  For 
his  mind  flung  itself  with  violence  upon  two  sentences: 
he  was  "beautiful  and  precious";  she  longed  for  him  to 
comfort  her.  Why,  he  asked  himself,  was  his  conduct 
beautiful  and  precious  ?  And  why  did  she  need  his  com- 
fort ?  The  words  were  like  vitriol  in  the  eyes. 

Long  before  reason  found  the  answer,  instinct — swift, 
merciless  interpreter — told  him  plainly.  While  the  brain 
fumbled,  the  heart  already  understood.  He  was  stabbed 
before  he  knew  what  stabbed  him. 

And  hope  sank  extinguished.  The  last  faint  doubt  was 

271 


272  The  Wave 

taken  from  him.  It  was  not  possible  to  deceive  himself 
an  instant  longer,  for  the  naked  truth  lay  staring  into  his 
eyes. 

He  swallowed  his  breakfast  without  appetite  .  .  .  and 
went  downstairs.  He  sighed,  but  something  wept  in- 
audibly.  A  wall  blocked  every  step  he  took.  The  devas- 
tating commonplace  was  upon  him — it  was  so  ordinary. 
Other  men  .  .  .  oh,  how  often  he  had  heard  the  familiar 
tale !  He  tried  to  grip  himself.  "Others  ...  of  course 
.  .  .  but  me!"  It  seemed  impossible. 

In  a  dream  he  crossed  the  crowded  hall,  avoiding  vari- 
ous acquaintances  with  unconscious  cunning.  He  found 
the  letter-box  and — posted  his  letter  to  Tony.  'That's 
gone,  at  any  rate!"  he  realized.  He  told  the  porter  to 
telephone  that  he  would  come  to  lunch.  "That's  settled 
too!"  Then,  hardly  knowing  what  blind  instinct 
prompted,  he  ordered  a  carriage  .  .  .  and  presently  found 
himself  driving  down  the  hot,  familiar  road  to — Karnak. 
For  some  faultless  impulse  guided  him.  He  turned  to 
the  gigantic  temple,  with  its  towering,  immense  propor- 
tions— as  though  its  grandeur  might  somehow  protect  and 
mother  him. 

In  those  dim  aisles  and  mighty  halls  brooded  a  Presence 
that  he  knew  could  soothe  and  comfort.  The  immensities 
hung  still  about  the  fabulous  ruin.  He  would  lose  his 
tortured  self  in  something  bigger — that  beauty  and  maj- 
esty which  are  Karnak.  Before  he  faced  Lettice,  he  must 
forget  a  moment — forget  his  fears,  his  hopes,  his  cease- 
less torment  of  belief  and  doubt.  It  was,  in  the  last 
resort,  religious — a  cry  for  help,  a  prayer.  But  also  it  was 
an  inarticulate  yearning  to  find  that  state  of  safety  where 
he  and  she  dwelt  secure  from  separation — in  the  "sea." 
For  Karnak  is  a  spiritual  experience,  or  it  is  nothing. 
There,  amid  the  deep  silence  of  the  listening  centuries,  he 
would  find  peace :  forgetting  himself  a  moment,  he  might 
find — strength. 

Then  reason  parsed  the  sentences  that  instinct  already 


The  Wave  273 

understood  complete.  For  Lettice — the  tender  woman  of 
his  first  acquaintance — had  obviously  experienced  a  mo- 
ment of  reaction.  She  realized  he  was  wounded  at  her 
hands.  She  felt  shame  and  pity.  She  craved  comfort 
and  forgiveness — his  comfort,  his  forgiveness.  Con- 
science whispered.  As  against  the  pain  she  inflicted,  he 
had  been  generous,  long-suffering — therefore  his  conduct 
was  "beautiful  and  precious."  Tony,  moreover,  had  hid- 
den himself  until  his  letter  should  be  answered — and  she 
was  "lonely." 

With  difficulty  Tom  suppressed  the  rising  bitterness 
of  contempt  and  anger  in  him.  His  cousin's  obliquity  was 
a  sordid  touch.  He  forgot  a  moment  the  loftier  point  of 
view.  But  for  a  short  time  only.  The  contempt  merged 
again  in  something  infinitely  greater.  The  anger  disap- 
peared. Her  attitude  occupied  him  exclusively.  The  two 
phrases  rang  on  with  insistent  meaning  in  his  heart,  as 
with  the  clang  of  a  fateful  sentence  of  exile,  execution — 
death : 

"How  beautiful  you  were  last  night,  and  precious  .  .  . 
I  long  for  you  to  comfort  me.  .  .  ." 

While  the  carriage  crawled  along  the  sun-baked  sand, 
he  watched  the  Arab  children  with  their  blue-black  hair, 
who  ran  beside  it,  screaming  for  backsheesh.  The  little 
faces  shone  like  polished  bronze,  they  held  their  hands 
out,  their  bare  feet  pattered  in  the  sand.  He  tossed  small 
coins  among  them.  And  their  cries  and  movements  fell 
into  the  rhythm  of  the  song,  whose  haunting  refrain 
pulsed  ever  in  his  blood :  "We  were  young,  we  were 
merry,  we  were  very  very  wise.  .  .  ." 

They  were  soon  out-distanced,  the  palm  trees  fell  away, 
the  soaring  temple  loomed  against  the  blazing  sky.  He 
left  the  arabyieh  at  the  Western  entrance  and  went  on 
foot  down  the  avenue  of  headless  rams.  The  huge 
Khonsu  gateway  dropped  its  shadow  over  him.  Passing 
through  the  Court  with  its  graceful  colonnades,  and  the 
Chapel,  flanked  by  cool,  dark  chambers,  where  the  Sacred 


274  The  Wave 

Boat  floated  on  its  tideless  sea  beyond  the  world,  he  moved 
on  across  the  sandy  waste  of  broken  stone  again,  and 
reached  in  a  few  minutes  the  towering  gray  and  reddish 
sandstone  that  was  Amon's  Temple. 

This  was  the  goal  of  his  little  pilgrimage.  Sublimity 
closed  round  him.  The  gigantic  pylon,  its  shoulders 
breaking  the  sky  four-square  far  overhead,  seemed  the 
prodigious  portal  of  another  world.  Slowly  he  passed 
within,  crossed  the  Great  Court  where  the  figures  of 
ancient  Theban  deities  peered  at  him  between  the  forest 
of  broken  monoliths  and  lovely  Osiris  pillars,  then,  mov- 
ing softly  beneath  the  second  enormous  pylon,  found 
himself  on  the  threshold  of  the  Great  Hypostyle  Hall 
itself. 

He  caught  his  breath,  he  paused,  then  stepped  within 
on  tiptoe,  and  the  hush  of  four  thousand  years  closed 
after  him.  Awe  stole  upon  him ;  he  felt  himself  included 
in  the  great  ideal  of  this  older  day.  The  stupendous  aisles 
lent  him  their  vast  shelter;  the  fierce  sunlight  could  not 
burn  his  flesh;  the  air  was  cool  and  sweet  in  these  dim 
recesses  of  unremembered  time.  He  passed  his  hand  with 
reverence  over  the  drum-shaped  blocks  that  built  up  the 
majestic  columns,  as  they  reared  towards  the  massive, 
threatening  roof.  The  countless  inscriptions  and  reliefs 
showered  upon  his  sight  bewilderingly. 

And  he  forgot  his  lesser  self  in  this  crowded  atmos- 
phere of  ancient  divinities  and  old-world  splendor.  He 
was  aware  of  kings  and  queens,  of  princes  and  princesses, 
of  stately  priests,  of  hosts  and  conquests ;  forgotten  gods 
and  goddesses  trooped  past  his  listening  soul ;  his  heart 
remembered  olden  wars,  and  the  royalty  of  golden  days 
came  back  to  him.  He  steeped  himself  in  the  long,  long 
silence  in  which  an  earlier  day  lay  listening  with  ears  of 
stone.  There  was  color ;  there  was  spendthrift  grandeur, 
half  savage,  half  divine.  His  imagination,  wakened  by 
Egypt,  plunged  backwards  with  a  sense  of  strange  fa- 
miliarity. Tom  easily  found  the  mightier  scale  his  aching 


The  Wave  275 

heart  so  hungrily  desired.  It  soothed  his  personal  an- 
guish with  a  sense  of  individual  insignificance  which  was 
comfort.  .  .  . 

The  peace  was  marvelous,  an  unearthly  peace;  the 
strength  unwearied,  inexhaustible.  The  power  that  was 
Amon  lingered  still  behind  the  tossed  and  fabulous  ruin. 
Those  soaring  columns  held  up  the  very  sky,  and  their 
foundations  made  the  earth  itself  swing  true.  The  silence, 
profound,  unalterable,  was  the  silence  in  the  soul  that  lies 
behind  all  passion  and  distress.  And  these  steadfast 
qualities  Tom  absorbed  unconsciously  through  his  very 
skin.  .  .  .  The  Wave  might  fall  indeed,  but  it  would  fall 
into  the  mothering  sea  where  levels  must  be  restored 
again,  secure  upon  unshakable  foundations.  .  .  .  And  as 
he  paced  these  solemn  aisles,  his  soul  drank  in  their  peace 
and  stillness,  their  strength  of  calm  resistance.  Though 
built  upon  the  sand,  they  still  endured,  and  would  continue 
to  endure.  They  pointed  to  the  stars. 

And  the  effect  produced  upon  him,  though  the  adjective 
was  not  his,  seemed  spiritual.  There  was  a  power  in  the 
mighty  ruin  that  lifted  him  to  an  unaccustomed  level 
from  which  he  looked  down  upon  the  inner  drama  being 
played.  He  reached  a  height;  the  bird's-eye  view  was 
his ;  he  saw  and  realized,  yet  he  did  not  judge.  The  vast 
structure,  by  its  harmony,  its  power,  its  overmastering 
beauty,  made  him  feel  ashamed  and  mortified.  A  sense 
of  humiliation  crept  into  him,  melting  certain  stubborn 
elements  of  self  that,  grown  out  of  proportion,  blocked 
his  soul's  clear  vision.  That  he  must  stand  aside  had 
never  occurred  to  him  before  with  such  stern  authority : 
it  occurred  to  him  now.  The  idea  of  sacrifice  stole  over 
him  with  a  sweetness  that  was  deep  and  marvelous.  It 
seemed  that  Isis  touched  him.  He  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
great  Osiris,  .  .  .  and  that  part  of  him  that  ever  watched 
— the  great  Onlooker — smiled. 

His  being,  as  a  whole,  remained  inarticulate  as  usual; 
no  words  came  to  his  assistance.  It  was  rather  that  he 


276  The  Wave 

attained — as  once  before,  in  another  moment  of  deeper 
insight — that  attitude  towards  himself  which  is  best  de- 
scribed as  impersonal.  Who  was  he,  indeed,  that  he 
should  claim  the  right  to  thwart  another's  happiness, 
hinder  another's  best  self-realization?  By  what  right, 
in  virtue  of  what  exceptional  personal  value,  could  he, 
Tom  Kelverdon,  lay  down  the  law  to  this  other,  and  say, 
"Me  only  shall  you  love  .  .  .  because  I  happen  to  love 
you  .  .  .?" 

And,  as  though  to  test  what  of  strength  and  honesty 
might  lie  in  this  sudden  exaltation  of  resolve,  he  recog- 
nized just  then  the  very  pylon  against  whose  vast  bulk 
they  had  rested  together  that  moonlit  night  a  few  short 
weeks  before  .  .  .  when  he  saw  two  rise  up  like  one  per- 
son ...  as  he  left  them  and  stole  away  into  the 
shadows. 

"So  I  knew  it  even  then — subconsciously,"  he  realized. 
"The  truth  was  in  me  even  then,  a  few  days  after  my 
arrival.  .  .  .  And  they  knew  it  too.  She  was  already 
going  from  me,  if  not  already  gone  .  .  . !" 

He  leaned  against  that  same  stone  column,  thinking, 
searching  in  his  mind,  feeling  acutely.  Reactions  caught 
at  him  in  quick  succession.  Doubt,  suspicion,  anger 
clouded  vision;  pain  routed  the  impersonal  conception. 
Loneliness  came  over  him  with  the  cool  wind  that  stirred 
the  sand  between  the  columns;  the  patches  of  glaring 
sunshine  took  on  a  ghastly  whiteness;  he  shivered.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  not  that  he  lost  belief  in  his  moment  of  clear 
vision,  nor  that  the  impersonal  attitude  became  untrue. 
It  was  another  thing  he  realized :  that  the  power  of  attain- 
ment was  not  yet  in  him  .  .  .  quite.  He  could  renounce, 
but  not  with  complete  acceptance.  .  .  . 

As  he  drove  back  along  the  sandy  lanes  of  blazing  heat 
a  little  later,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  through 
some  strenuous  battle  that  had  taxed  his  final  source  of 
strength.  If  his  position  was  somewhat  vague,  this  was 
due  to  his  inability  to  analyze  such  deep  interior  turmoil. 


The  Wave  277 

He  was  sure,  at  least,  of  one  thing — that,  before  he  could 
know  this  final  joy  awaiting  him,  he  must  first  find  in 
himself  the  strength  for  what  seemed  just  then  an  im- 
possible, an  ultimate  sacrifice.  He  must  forget  himself — 
if  such  forgetfulness  involved  the  happiness  of  another. 
He  must  slip  out.  The  strength  to  do  it  would  come  pres- 
ently. And  his  heart  was  full  of  this  indeterminate,  half- 
formed  resolve  as  he  entered  the  shady  garden  and  saw 
Lettice  lying  in  her  deck-chair  beneath  the  trees,  awaiting 
him. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

EVENTS,  however  slight,  which  involve  the  soul  are 
drama ;  for  once  the  soul  takes  a  hand  in  them  their 
effects  are  permanent  and  reproductive.  Not  alone  the 
relationships  between  individuals  are  determined  this  way 
or  that,  but  the  relationships  of  these  individuals  towards 
the  universe  are  changed  upon  a  scale  of  geometrical 
progression.  The  results  are  of  the  eternal  order.  Since 
that  which  persists — the  soul — is  radically  affected,  they 
are  of  ultimate  importance. 

Had  the  strange  tie  between  Tom  and  Lettice  been  due 
to  physical  causes  only,  to  mental  affinity,  or  to  mere 
sympathetic  admiration  of  each  other's  outward  strength 
and  beauty,  a  rupture  between  them  could  have  been  of  a 
passing  character  merely.  A  pang,  a  bitterness  that  lasted 
for  a  day  or  for  a  year — and  the  gap  would  be  filled  again 
by  some  one  else.  They  had  idealized ;  they  would  get 
over  it ;  they  were  not  indispensable  to  one  another ;  there 
were  other  fish  in  the  sea,  and  so  forth. 

But  with  Tom,  at  any  rate,  there  was  something  trans- 
cendental in  their  intimate  union.  Loss,  where  she  was 
concerned,  involved  a  permanent  and  irremediable  be- 
reavement— no  substitute  was  conceivable.  With  him, 
this  relationship  seemed  foreordained,  almost  prenatal — 
it  had  come  to  him  at  the  very  dawn  of  life;  it  had  lasted 
through  years  of  lonely  waiting;  no  other  woman  had 
ever  threatened  its  fixed  security ;  and  the  sudden  meet- 
ing in  Switzerland  had  seemed  to  him  reunion  rather  than 
discovery.  Moreover  he  had  transferred  his  own  sense 
of  security  to  her;  had  always  credited  her  with  similar 
feelings;  and  the  suspicion,  now,  that  he  had  deceived 
himself  in  this  made  life  tremble  to  the  foundations.  It 

278 


The  Wave  279 

was  a  terrible  thought  that  robbed  him  of  every  atom  of 
self-confidence.  It  affected  his  attitude  to  the  entire  uni- 
verse. 

The  intensity  of  this  drama,  however,  being  interior, 
caused  little  outward  disturbance  that  casual  onlookers 
need  have  noticed.  He  waved  his  hat  as  he  walked  to- 
wards the  corner  where  she  lay,  greeting  her  with  a  smile 
and  careless  word,  as  though  no  shadow  stood  between 
them.  A  barrier,  nevertheless,  was  there,  he  knew.  He 
felt  it  almost  sensibly.  Also — it  had  grown  higher.  And 
at  once  he  was  aware  that  the  Lettice  who  returned  his 
smile  with  a  colorless  "Good-morning,  Tom,  I'm  so  glad 
you  could  come/'  was  not  the  Lettice  who  had  known  a 
moment's  reaction  a  little  while  before.  He  told  by  her 
very  attitude  that  now  there  was  lassitude,  even  weariness 
in  her.  Her  eyes  betrayed  none  of  the  excitement  and 
delight  that  another  could  wake  in  her.  His  own  presence 
certainly  no  longer  brought  the  thrill,  the  interest  that 
once  it  did.  She  was  both  bored  and  lonely. 

And,  while  an  exquisite  pain  ran  through  him,  he  made 
a  prodigious  effort  to  draw  upon  the  strength  he  had  felt 
in  Karnak  a  short  half-hour  ago.  He  struggled  bravely  to 
forget  himself.  "So  Tony's  gone!"  he  said  lightly,  "run 
off  and  left  us  without  so  much  as  a  word  of  warning  or 
good-by.  A  rascally  proceeding,  I  call  it!  Rather  sud- 
den, too,  wasn't  it  ?" 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  began  to  smoke.  She  need 
not  answer  unless  she  wanted  to.  She  did  answer,  how- 
ever, and  at  once.  She  did  not  look  at  him ;  her  eyes  were 
on  the  golden  distance.  It  had  to  be  said;  she  said  it. 
"He's  only  gone  for  two  or  three  days.  His  friends  sud- 
denly changed  their  minds,  and  he  couldn't  get  out  of  it. 
He  said  he  didn't  want  to  go — a  bit." 

How  did  she  know  it,  Tom  wondered,  glancing  up 
over  his  cigarette?  And  how  had  she  read  his  mind  so 
easily  ? 

"He  just  popped  in  to  tell  me,"  she  added,  "and  to  say 


280  The  Wave 

good-by.  He  asked  me  to  tell  you."  She  spoke  without 
a  tremor,  as  if  Tom  had  no  right  to  disapprove. 

"Pretty  early,  wasn't  it?"  It  was  not  the  first  time 
either.  "He  comes  at  such  unusual  hours" — he  remem- 
bered Mrs.  Haughstone's  words. 

"I  was  only  just  up.  But  there  was  time  to  give  him 
coffee  before  the  train." 

She  offered  no  further  comment ;  Tom  made  none ;  he 
sat  smoking  there  beside  her,  outwardly  calm  and  peace- 
ful as  though  no  feeling  of  any  kind  was  in  him.  He  felt 
numb  perhaps.  In  his  mind  he  saw  the  picture  of  the 
breakfast-table  beneath  the  trees.  The  plan  had  been 
arranged,  of  course,  beforehand. 

"Miss  de  Lome's  coming  to  lunch,"  she  mentioned 
presently.  "She's  to  bring  her  pictures — the  Deir-el- 
Bahri  ones.  You  must  help  me  criticize  them." 

So  they  were  not  to  be  alone  even  was  Tom's  instant 
thought.  Aloud  he  said  merely,  "I  hope  they're  good." 
She  flicked  the  flies  away  with  her  horse-hair  whisk  and 
sighed.  He  caught  the  sigh.  The  day  felt  empty,  unin- 
spired, the  boredom  of  cruel  disillusion  in  it  somewhere. 
But  it  was  the  sigh  that  made  him  realize  it.  Avoiding 
the  subject  of  Tony's  abrupt  departure,  he  asked  what 
she  would  like  to  do  that  afternoon ;  he  made  various  pro- 
posals. She  listened  without  interest.  "D'you  know, 
Tom,  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  do  anything  much,  but  just 
lie  and  rest." 

There  was  no  energy  in  her,  no  zest  for  life;  expedi- 
tions had  lost  their  interest;  she  was  listless,  tired.  He 
felt  impatience  in  him,  sharp  disappointment  too;  but 
there  was  an  alert  receptiveness  in  his  mind  that  noted 
trifles  done  or  left  undone.  She  made  no  reference,  for 
instance,  to  the  fact  that  they  might  be  frequently  alone 
together  now.  A  faint  hope  that  had  been  in  him  van- 
ished quickly.  .  .  .  He  wondered  when  she  was  going  to 
speak  of  her  letter,  of  his  conduct  the  night  before  that 
was  "beautiful  and  precious,"  of  the  comfort  she  had 


The  Wave  281 

needed,  or  even  of  the  dreams  that  she  had  mentioned. 
But,  though  he  waited,  giving  various  openings,  nothing 
was  forthcoming.  That  side  of  her,  once  intimately 
precious  and  familiar,  seemed  buried,  hidden  away,  per- 
haps forgotten.  This  was  not  Lettice — it  was  some  one 
else. 

"You  had  dreams  that  frightened  you?"  he  inquired  at 
length.  "You  said  you'd  tell  them  to  me."  He  moved 
nearer  so  that  he  could  watch  her  face. 

She  looked  puzzled  for  a  second.  "Did  I  ?"  she  replied. 
She  thought  a  moment.  "Oh  yes,  of  course  I  did.  But 
they  weren't  much  really.  I'd  forgotten.  It  was  about 
water  or  something.  Oh  yes,  I  remember  now — we  were 
drowning,  and  you  saved  us."  She  gave  a  little  unmean- 
ing laugh  as  she  said  it. 

"Who  were  drowning?" 

"All  of  us — me  and  you,  I  think  it  was — and 
Tony " 

"Oh,  of  course." 

She  looked  up.  "Tom,  why  do  you  say  'Of  course'  like 
that?" 

"It  was  your  old  idea  of  the  river  and  the  floating 
faces,  I  meant,"  he  answered.  "I  had  the  feeling." 

"You  said  it  so  sharply." 

"Did  I!"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly.  "I 
didn't  mean  to."  He  noticed  the  beauty  of  her  ear,  the 
delicate  line  of  the  nostrils,  the  long  eyelashes.  The 
graceful  neck,  with  the  firm,  slim  line  of  the  breast  below, 
was  exquisite.  The  fairy  curve  of  her  ankle  was  just 
visible.  He  could  have  knelt  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 
Her  coolness,  the  touch  of  contempt  in  her  voice  made 
him  wild.  .  .  .  But  he  understood  his  role;  and — he  re- 
membered Karnak. 

A  little  pause  followed.  Lettice  made  one  of  her 
curious  gestures,  half  impatience,  half  weariness.  She 
stretched ;  the  other  ankle  appeared.  Tom,  as  he  saw  it, 
felt  something  in  him  burst  into  flame.  He  came  peril- 


282  The  Wave 

ously  near  to  saying  impetuously  a  hundred  things  he 
had  determined  that  he  must  not  say.  He  felt  the  indif- 
ference in  her,  the  coolness,  almost  the  cruelty.  Her 
negative  attitude  towards  him  goaded,  tantalized.  He 
was  full  of  burning  love,  from  head  to  foot,  while  she  lay 
there^ within  two  feet  of  him,  calm,  listless,  unresponsive, 
passionless.  The  bitter  pain  of  promises  unfulfilled  as- 
sailed him  acutely,  poignantly.  Yet  in  ordinary  life  the 
situation  was  so  commonplace.  The  "strong  man"  would 
face  her  with  it,  have  it  out  plainly ;  he  would  be  master- 
ful, forcing  a  climax  of  one  kind  or  another,  behaving 
as  men  do  in  novels  or  on  the  stage. 

Yet  Tom  remained  tongue-tied  and  restrained;  he 
seemed  unable  to  take  the  lead;  an  inner  voice  cried 
sternly  No  to  all  such  natural  promptings.  It  would  be 
a  gross  mistake.  He  must  let  things  take  their  course. 
He  must  not  force  a  premature  disclosure.  With  a  tre- 
mendous effort,  he  controlled  himself  and  smothered  the 
rising  fires  that  struggled  towards  speech  and  action.  He 
would  not  even  ask  a  single  question.  Somehow,  in  any 
case,  it  was  impossible. 

The  subject  dropped;  Lettice  made  no  further  refer- 
ence to  the  letter. 

"When  you  feel  like  going  anywhere,  or  doing  any- 
thing, you'll  let  me  know,"  he  suggested  presently. 
"We've  been  too  energetic  lately.  It's  best  for  you  to 
rest.  You're  tired."  The  words  hurt  and  stung  him  as 
though  he  were  telling  lies.  He  felt  untrue  to  himself. 
The  blood  boiled  in  his  veins. 

She  answered  him  with  a  touch  of  impatience  again, 
almost  of  exasperation.  He  noticed  the  emphasis  she 
used  so  needlessly. 

"Tom,  I'm  not  tired — not  in  the  way  you  mean.  It's 
just  that  I  feel  like  being  quiet  for  a  bit.  Really  it's  not 
so  remarkable !  Can't  you  understand  ?" 

"Perfectly,"  he  rejoined  calmly,  lighting  another  cig- 
arette. "We'll  have  a  program  ready  for  later — when 


The  Wave  283 

Tony  gets  back."  The  blood  rushed  from  his  heart  as 
he  said  it. 

Her  face  brightened  instantly,  as  he  had  expected — 
dreaded ;  there  was  no  attempt  at  concealment  anywhere ; 
she  showed  interest  as  frankly  as  a  child.  "It  was  stupid 
of  him  to  go,  just  when  we  were  enjoying  everything  so," 
she  said  again.  "I  wonder  how  long  he'll  stay " 

"I'll  write  and  tell  him  to  hurry  up,"  suggested  Tom. 
He  twirled  his  fly-whisk  energetically. 

"Tell  him  we  can't  get  on  without  our  dragomcm,"  she 
added  eagerly  with  her  first  attempt  at  gaiety;  and  then 
went  on  to  mention  other  things  he  was  to  say,  till  her 
pleasure  in  talking  about  Tony  was  so  obvious  that  Tom 
yielded  to  temptation  suddenly.  It  was  more  than  he 
could  bear.  "I  strongly  suspect  a  pretty  girl  in  the  party 
somewhere,"  he  observed  carelessly. 

"There  is,"  came  the  puzzling  reply,  "but  he  doesn't 
care  for  her  a  bit.  He  told  me  all  about  her.  It's  curi- 
ous, isn't  it,  how  he  fascinates  them  all?  There's  some- 
thing very  remarkable  about  Tony — I  can't  quite  make 
it  out." 

Tom  leaned  forward,  bringing  his  face  in  front  of  her 
own,  and  closer  to  it.  He  looked  hard  into  her  eyes  a 
moment.  In  the  depths  of  her  steady  gaze  he  saw  shad- 
ows, far  away,  behind  the  open  expression.  There  was 
trouble  in  her,  but  it  was  deep,  deep  down  and  out  of 
sight.  The  eyes  of  some  one  else,  it  seemed,  looked 
through  her  into  his.  An  older  world  came  whispering 
across  the  sunlight  and  the  sand. 

"Lettice,"  he  said  quietly,  "there's  something  new  come 
into  your  life  these  last  few  weeks — isn't  there?"  His 
voice  grated — like  machinery  started  with  violent  effort 
against  resistance.  "Some  new,  big  force,  I  mean  ?  You 
seem  so  changed,  so  different."  He  had  not  meant  to 
speak  like  this.  It  was  forced  out.  He  expressed  him- 
self badly  too.  He  raged  inwardly. 

She  smiled,  but  only  with  her  lips.    The  shadows  from 


284  The  Wave 

behind  her  eyes  drew  nearer  to  the  surface.  But  the  eyes 
themselves  held  steady.  That  other  look  peered  out  of 
them.  He  was  aware  of  power,  of  something  strangely 
bewitching,  yet  at  the  same  time  fierce,  inflexible  in  her 
.  .  .  and  a  kind  of  helplessness  came  over  him,  as  though 
he  was  suddenly  out  of  his  depth,  without  sure  footing. 
The  Wave  roared  in  his  ears  and  blood. 

"Egypt  probably — old  Egypt,"  she  said  gently,  making 
a  small  gesture  with  one  hand  towards  the  river  and  the 
sky.  "It  must  be  that."  The  gesture,  it  seemed  to  him, 
had  royalty  in  it  somewhere.  There  was  stateliness  and 
dignity — an  air  of  authority  about  her.  It  was  magnifi- 
cent. He  felt  worship  in  him.  The  slave  that  lies  in  wor- 
ship stirred.  He  could  yield  his  life,  suffer  torture  for 
days  to  give  her  a  moment's  happiness. 

"I  meant  something  personal,  rather,"  he  prevaricated. 

"You  meant  Tony.    I  know  it.     Didn't  you,  Tom?" 

His  breath  caught  inwardly.  In  spite  of  himself,  and 
in  spite  of  his  decision,  she  drew  his  secret  out.  Enchant- 
ment touched  him  deliciously,  an  actual  torture  in  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  honestly,  "perhaps  I  did."  He  said  it 
shame-facedly  rather,  to  his  keen  vexation.  "For  it  has 
to  do  with  Tony  somehow." 

He  got  up  abruptly,  tossed  his  cigarette  over  the  wall 
into  the  river,  then  sat  down  again.  "There's  something 
about  it — strange  and  big.  I  can't  make  it  out  a  bit." 
He  faltered,  stammered  over  the  words.  "It's  a  long  way 
off — then  all  at  once  it's  close."  He  had  the  feeling  that 
he  had  put  a  match  to  something.  "I've  done  it  now,"  he 
said  to  himself  like  a  boy,  as  though  he  expected  that 
something  dramatic  must  happen  instantly. 

But  nothing  happened.  The  river  flowed  on  silently, 
the  heat  blazed  down,  the  leaves  hung  motionless  as  be- 
fore, and  far  away  the  lime-stone  hills  lay  sweltering  in 
the  glare.  But  those  hills  had  glided  nearer.  He  was 
aware  of  them, — the  Valley  of  the  Kings, — the  desolate 


The  Wave  285 

Theban  Hills  with  their  myriad  secrets  and  their  death- 
less tombs. 

Lettice  gave  her  low,  significant  little  laugh.  "It's  odd 
you  should  say  that,  Tom — very  odd.  Because  I've  felt 
it  too.  It's  awfully  remote  and  quite  near  at  the  same 
time » 

"And  Tony's  brought  it,"  he  interrupted  eagerly,  half 
passionately.  "It's  got  to  do  with  him,  I  mean." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  barrier  between  them  had 
lowered  a  little.  The  Lettice  he  knew  first  peered  over 
it  at  him. 

"No,"  she  corrected,  "I  don't  feel  that  he's  brought  it. 
He's  in  it  somehow,  I  admit,  but  he  has  not  brought  it 
exactly."  She  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  think  the  truth  is 
he  can't  help  himself — any  more  than  we — you  or  I — 
can." 

There  was  a  caressing  tenderness  in  her  voice  as  she 
said  it,  but  whether  for  himself  or  for  another  he  could 
not  tell.  In  his  heart  rose  a  frantic  impulse  just  then  to 
ask — to  blurt  it  out :  "Do  you  love  Tony  ?  Has  he  taken 
you  from  me  ?  Tell  me  the  truth  and  I  can  bear  it.  Only, 
for  heaven's  sake,  don't  hide  it !"  But,  instead  of  saying 
this  absurd,  theatrical  thing,  he  looked  at  her  through  the 
drifting  cigarette  smoke  a  moment  without  speaking,  try- 
ing to  read  the  expression  in  her  face.  "Last  night,  for 
instance,"  he  exclaimed  abruptly;  "in  the  music  room, 
I  mean.  Did  you  feel  that? — the  intensity — a  kind  of 
ominous  feeling?" 

Her  expression  was  enigmatical;  there  were  signs  of 
struggle  in  it,  he  thought.  It  was  as  if  two  persons 
fought  within  her  which  should  answer.  Apparently  the 
dear  Lettice  of  his  first  acquaintance  won — for  the  mo- 
ment. 

"You  noticed  it  too !"  she  exclaimed  with  astonishment. 
"I  thought  I  was  the  only  one." 

"We  all — all  three  of  us — felt  it,"  he  said  in  a  lower 
tone.  "Tony  certainly  did " 


286  The  Wave 

Lettice  raised  herself  suddenly  on  her  elbow  and 
looked  down  at  him  with  earnestness.  Something  of  the 
old  eagerness  was  in  her.  The  barrier  between  them 
lowered  perceptibly  again,  and  Tom  felt  a  momentary 
return  of  the  confidence  he  had  lost.  His  heart  beat 
quickly.  He  made  a  half  impetuous  gesture  towards  her 
—"What  is  it?  What  does  it  all  mean,  Lettice?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "D'you  feel  what  /  feel  in  it — danger  some- 
where— danger  for  us?"  There  was  a  yearning,  almost 
a  cry  for  mercy  in  his  voice. 

She  drew  back  again.  "You  amaze  me,  Tom,"  she 
said,  as  she  lay  among  her  cushions.  "I  had  no  idea 
you  were  so  observant."  She  paused,  putting  her  hand 
across  her  eyes  a  moment.  "N-no — I  don't  feel  danger 
exactly,"  she  went  on  in  a  lower  tone,  speaking  half  to 
herself  and  half  to  him ;  "I  feel — "  She  broke  off  with 
a  little  sigh ;  her  hand  still  covered  her  eyes.  "I  feel,"  she 
went  on  slowly,  with  pauses  between  the  words,  "a  deep, 
deep  something — from  very  far  away — that  comes  over 
me  at  times — only  at  times,  yes.  It's  remote,  enormously 
remote — but  it  has  to  be.  I've  never  given  you  all  that 
I  ought  to  give.  We  have  to  go  through  with  it " 

"You  and  I?"  he  whispered.  He  was  listening  in- 
tently. The  beats  of  his  heart  were  most  audible. 

She  sighed.  "All  three  of  us — somehow,"  she  replied 
equally  low,  and  speaking  again  more  to  herself  than  to 
him.  "Ah !  Now  my  dream  comes  back  a  little.  It  was 
the  river — my  river  with  the  floating  faces.  And  the 
thing  I  feel  comes — from  its  source,  far,  far  away — its 

tiny  source  among  the  hills "  She  sighed  again,  more 

deeply  than  before.  Her  breast  heaved  slightly.  We 
must  go  through  it — yes.  It's  necessary  for  us — neces- 
sary for  you — and  me " 

"Lettice,  my  precious,  my  wonderful!"  Tom  whis- 
pered as  though  the  breath  choked  and  strangled  him. 
"But  we  stay  together  through  it?  We  stay  together 
afterwards?  You  love  me  still?"  He  leaned  across  and 


The  Wave  287 

took  her  other  hand.  It  lay  unresistingly  in  his.  It  was 
very  cold — without  a  sign  of  response. 

Her  reply  half  staggered  him:  "We  are  always,  al- 
ways together,  you  and  I.  Even  if  you  married,  I  should 
still  be  yours.  He  will  go  out " 

Fear  clashed  with  hope  in  his  heart  as  he  heard  these 
words  he  could  not  understand.  He  groped  and  plunged 
after  their  meaning.  He  was  bewildered  by  the  reference 
to  marriage — his  marriage!  Was  she,  then,  already 
aware  that  she  might  lose  him?  .  .  .  But  there  was  con- 
fession in  them  too,  the  confession  that  she  had  been 
away  from  him.  That  he  felt  clearly.  Now  that  the  di- 
viding influence  was  removed,  she  was  coming  back  per- 
haps! If  Tony  stayed  away  she  would  come  back  en- 
tirely; only  then  the  thing  that  had  to  happen  would  be 
prevented — which  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 
.  .  .  "Poor  Lettice.  .  .  ."  He  felt  pity,  love,  protection 
that  he  burned  to  give;  he  felt  a  savage  pain  and  anger 
as  well.  In  the  depths  of  him  love  and  murder  sat  side 
by  side. 

"Oh,  Lettice,  tell  me  everything.  Do  share  with  me — 
share  it  and  we'll  meet  it  together."  He  drew  her  cold 
hand  towards  him,  putting  it  inside  his  coat.  "Don't  hide 
it  from  me.  You're  my  whole  world.  My  love  can  never 
change.  .  .  .  Only  don't  hide  anything!"  The  words 
poured  out  of  him  with  passionate  entreaty..  The  barrier 
had  melted,  vanished.  He  had  found  her  again,  the  Let- 
tice of  his  childhood,  of  his  dream,  the  true  and  faithful 
woman  he  had  known  first.  His  inexpressible  love  rose 
like  a  wave  upon  him.  Regardless  of  where  they  were  he 
bent  over  to  take  her  in  his  arms — when  she  suddenly 
withdrew  her  hand  from  his.  She  removed  the  other 
from  her  eyes.  He  saw  her  face.  And  he  realized  in  an 
instant  that  his  words  had  been  all  wrong.  He  had  said 
precisely  again  what  he  ought  not  to  have  said.  The 
moment  in  her  had  passed. 

The  sudden  change  had  a  freezing  effect  upon  him. 


288  The  Wave 

"Tom,  I  don't  understand  quite,"  she  said  coldly,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  his  almost  with  resentment  in  them.  "I'm 
not  hiding  anything  from  you.  Why  do  you  say  such 
things?  I'm  true — true  to  myself." 

The  barrier  was  up  again  in  an  instant,  of  granite  this 
time,  with  jagged  edges  of  cut  glass  upon  it,  so  that  he 
could  not  approach  it  even.  It  was  not  Lettice  that  spoke 
then: 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  you  out  here,"  she  went 
on,  each  word  she  uttered  increasing  the  distance  between 
them;  "you  misunderstand  everything  I  say  and  criticize 
all  I  do.  You  suspect  my  tenderest  instincts.  Even  a 
friendship  that  brings  me  happiness  you  object  to  and 
— and  exaggerate." 

He  listened  till  she  ceased ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  received 
a  blow  in  the  face;  he  felt  disconcerted,  keenly  aware  of 
his  own  stupidity,  helpless.  Something  froze  in  him. 
He  had  seen  her  for  a  second,  then  lost  her  utterly. 

"No,  no,  Lettice,"  he  stammered,  "you  read  all  that 
into  me — really,  you  do.  I  only  want  your  happi- 
ness." 

Her  eyes  softened  a  little.  She  sighed  wearily  and 
turned  her  face  away. 

"We  were  only  talking  of  this  curious,  big  feeling  that's 
come "  he  went  on. 

"You  were  speaking  of  Tony — that's  what  you  really 
meant,  Tom,"  she  interrupted.  "You  know  it  perfectly 
well.  It  only  makes  it  harder — for  me." 

He  felt  suddenly  she  was  masquerading,  playing  with 
him  again,  playing  with  his  very  heart  and  soul.  The 
devil  tempted  him.  All  the  things  he  had  decided  he 
would  not  say  rose  to  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  The  worst 
of  them — those  that  hurt  him  most — he  managed  to  force 
down.  But  even  the  one  he  did  suffer  to  escape  gave  him 
atrocious  pain : 

"Well,  Lettice,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  do  think  Tony  has  a 
bad — a  curious  influence  on  you.  I  do  feel  he  has  come 


The  Wave  289 

between  us  rather.  And  I  do  think  that  if  you  would 
only  share  with  me " 

The  sudden  way  she  turned  upon  him,  rising  from 
her  chair  and  standing  over  him,  was  so  startling  that 
he  got  up  too.  They  faced  each  other,  he  in  the  blazing 
sunshine,  she  in  the  shade.  She  looked  so  different  that 
he  was  utterly  taken  aback.  She  wore  that  singular  East- 
ern appearance  he  now  knew  so  well.  Expression,  atti- 
tude, gesture,  all  betrayed  it.  That  inflexible,  cruel  thing 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

"Tom,  dear,"  she  said,  but  with  a  touch  of  frigid  ex- 
asperation that  for  a  moment  paralyzed  thought  and  ut- 
terance in  him,  "whatever  happens,  you  must  realize  this 
— that  I  am  myself  and  that  I  can  never  allow  my  free- 
dom to  be  taken  from  me.  If  you're  determined  to  mis- 
judge, the  fault  is  yours,  and  if  our  love,  our  friendship 
cannot  understand  that,  there's  something  wrong  with  it." 

The  word  "friendship"  was  like  a  sword-thrust.  It 
went  right  through  him.  "I  trust  you,"  he  faltered,  "I 
trust  you  wholly.  I  know  you're  true."  But  the  words, 
it  seemed,  gave  expression  to  an  intense  desire,  a  fading 
hope.  He  did  not  say  it  with  conviction.  She  gazed  at 
him  for  a  moment  through  half-closed  eyelids. 

"Do  you,  Tom?"  she  whispered. 

"Lettice  .  .  .   !" 

"Then  believe  at  least — "  her  voice  wavered  suddenly, 
there  came  a  little  break  in  it — "that  I  am  true  to  you, 
Tom,  as  I  am  to  myself.  Believe  in  that  .  .  .  and — Oh ! 
for  the  love  of  heaven — help  me!" 

Before  he  could  respond,  before  he  could  act  upon  the 
hope  and  passion  her  last  unexpected  words  set  loose  in 
him — she  turned  away  to  go  into  the  house.  Voices  were 
audible  behind  them,  and  Miss  de  Lome  was  coming  up 
the  sandy  drive  with  Mrs.  Haughstone.  Tom  watched 
her  go.  She  moved  with  a  certain  gliding,  swaying  walk 
as  she  passed  along  the  verandah  and  disappeared  behind 
the  curtains  of  dried  grass.  It  almost  seemed — though 


290  The  Wave 

this  must  certainly  have  been  a  trick  of  light  and  shadow 
— that  she  was  swathed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  clinging 
garment  not  of  modern  kind,  and  that  he  caught  the  gleam 
of  gold  upon  the  flesh  of  dusky  arms  that  were  bare  above 
the  elbow.  Two  persons  were  visible  in  her  very  physical 
appearance,  as  two  persons  had  just  been  audible  in  her 
words.  Thence  came  the  conflict  and  the  contradictions. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  FEW  minutes  later  Lettice  was  presiding  over  her 
luncheon  table  as  though  life  were  simple  as  the 
sunlight  in  the  street  outside,  and  no  clouds  could  ever 
fleck  the  procession  of  the  years.  She  was  quiet  and  yet 
betrayed  excitement  Tom,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
table,  watched  her  girlish  figure,  her  graceful  gestures. 
Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  no  shadows  in  their  depths ; 
she  returned  his  gaze  with  untroubled  frankness.  Yet  the 
set  of  her  little  mouth  had  self-mastery  in  it  somewhere ; 
there  was  no  wavering  or  uncertainty ;  her  self-possession 
was  complete.  But  above  his  head  the  sword  of  Damocles 
hung.  He  saw  the  thread,  taut  and  gleaming  in  the  glare 
of  the  Egyptian  sunlight.  .  .  .  He  waited  upon  his  cou- 
sin's return  as  men  once  waited  for  the  sign  thumbs  up, 
thumbs  down.  .  .  . 

"Molly  has  sent  me  her  album,"  mentioned  Mrs. 
Haughstone  when  the  four  of  them  were  lounging  in  the 
garden  chairs;  "she  wonders  if  you  would  write  your 
name  in  it.  "It's  her  passion — to  fill  it  with  distinguished 
names."  And  when  the  page  was  found,  she  pointed  to 
the  quotation  against  his  birthday  date  with  the  remark, 
in  a  lowered  voice :  "It's  quite  appropriate,  isn't  it  ?  For 
a  man,  I  mean,"  she  added,  "because  when  a  man's  un- 
happy he's  more  easily  tempted  to  suspicion  than  a  woman 
is."  " 

"What  is  the  quotation?"  asked  Lettice,  glancing  up 
from  her  deck  chair. 

Tom  was  carefully  inscribing  his  "distinguished"  name 
in  the  child's  album,  as  Mrs.  Haughstone  read  the  words 
aloud  over  his  shoulder: 

"  'Whatever  the  circumstances,  there  is  no  man  so  mis- 

291 


292  The  Wave 

erable  that  he  need  not  be  true/  It's  anonymous,"  she 
added,  "but  it's  by  some  one  very  wise." 

"A  woman,  probably,"  Miss  de  Lome  put  in  with  a 
laugh. 

They  discussed  it,  while  Tom  laboriously  wrote  his 
name  against  it  with  a  fountain  pen.  His  writing  was  a 
little  shaky,  for  his  sight  was  blurred  and  ice  was  in  his 
veins. 

"There's  no  need  for  you  to  hurry,  is  there  ?"  said  Let- 
tice  presently.  "Won't  you  stay  and  read  to  me  a  bit? 
Or  would  you  rather  look  in — after  dinner — and  smoke  ?" 
The  two  selves  spoke  in  that.  It  was  as  if  the  earlier, 
loving  Lettice  tried  to  assert  itself,  but  was  instantly 
driven  back  again.  How  differently  she  would  have  said 
it  a  few  months  ago.  .  .  .  He  made  excuses,  saying  he 
would  drop  in  after  dinner  if  he  might.  She  did  not  press 
him  further. 

"I  am  tired  a  little,"  she  said  gently.  "I'll  sleep  and 
rest  and  write  letters  too,  then." 

She  was  invariably  tired  now,  Tom  soon  discovered — 
until  Tony  returned  from  Cairo.  .  .  . 

And  that  evening  he  escaped  the  invitations  to  play 
bridge,  and  made  his  way  back,  as  in  a  dream,  to  the  little 
house  upon  the  Nile.  He  found  her  bending  over  the 
table  so  that  the  lamp  shone  on  her  abundant  coils  of  hair, 
and  as  he  entered  softly  he  saw  the  address  on  the  envel- 
ope beside  her  writing  pad,  several  pages  of  which  were 
already  covered  with  her  small,  fine  writing.  He  read 
the  name  before  he  could  turn  his  eyes  away. 

"I  was  writing  to  Tony,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  an 
untroubled  smile,  "but  I  can  finish  later.  And  you've 
come  just  in  time  to  take  my  part.  Ettie's  been  scolding 
me  severely  again." 

She  blotted  the  lines  and  put  the  paper  on  one  side, 
then  turned  with  a  challenging  expression  at  her  cousin 
who  was  knitting  by  the  open  window.  The  little  name 
sounded  so  incongruous;  it  did  not  suit  the  big  gaunt 


The  Wave  293 

woman  who  had  almost  a  touch  of  the  monstrous  in  her. 
Tom  stared  a  moment  without  speaking.  The  playful 
challenge  had  reality  in  it.  Lettice  intended  to  define  her 
position  openly.  She  meant  that  Tom  should  support  her 
too. 

He  smiled  as  he  watched  them.  But  no  words  came  to 
him.  Then,  remembering  all  at  once  that  he  had  not  kept 
his  promise,  he  said  quietly :  "I  must  send  a  line  as  well. 
I  quite  forgot." 

"You  can  write  it  now,"  suggested  Lettice,  "and  I'll  en- 
close it  in  mine."  And  she  pointed  to  the  envelopes  and 
paper  before  him  on  the  table. 

There  was  a  moment  of  acute  and  painful  struggle  in 
him;  pride  and  love  fought  the  old  pitched  battle,  but 
on  a  field  of  her  own  bold  choosing !  Tom  knew  murder 
in  his  heart,  but  he  knew  also  that  strange  rich  pain  of 
sacrifice.  It  was  theatrical :  he  stood  upon  the  stage,  an 
audience  watching  him  with  intent  expectancy,  wondering 
upon  his  decision.  Mrs.  Haughstone,  Lettice  and  another 
part  of  himself  that  was. Onlooker  were  the  audience; 
Mrs.  Haughstone  had  ceased  knitting,  Lettice  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  a  smile  in  the  eyes,  but  the  lips  set  very 
firmly  together.  The  man  in  him,  with  scorn  and  anger, 
seemed  to  clench  his  fists,  while  that  other  self — as  with 
a  spirit's  voice  from  very  far  away — whispered  behind 
his  pain :  "Obey.  You  must.  It  has  to  be,  so  why  not 
help  it  forward !" 

To  play  the  game,  but  to  play  it  better  than  before, 
flashed  through  him.  .  .  .  Half  amazed  at  himself,  yet 
half  contented,  he  sat  down  mechanically  and  scribbled 
a  few  lines  of  urgent  entreaty  to  his  cousin  to  come  back 
soon.  .  .  .  "We  want  you  here,  it's  dull,  we  can't  get  on 
without  you  .  .  ."  knowing  that  he  traced  the  sentences 
of  his  own  death-warrant.  He  folded  it  and  passed  it 
across  to  Lettice,  who  slipped  it  unread  into  her  envelope. 
"That  ought  to  bring  him,  you  think?"  she  observed,  a 
happy  light  in  her  eyes,  yet  with  a  faint  sigh  half 


294  The  Wave 

suppressed  as  though  she  did  a  thing  which  hurt  her 
too. 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Tom.    "I  think  so." 

He  knew  not  what  she  had  written  to  Tony ;  but  what- 
ever it  was,  his  own  note  would  appear  to  endorse  it. 
He  had  perhaps  placed  in  her  hand  the  weapon  that  should 
hasten  his  own  defeat,  stretch  him  bleeding  on  the  sand. 
And  yet  he  trusted  her ;  she  was  loyal  and  true  through- 
out. The  quicker  the  climax  came,  the  sooner  would  he 
know  the  marvelous  joy  that  lay  beyond  the  pain.  In 
some  way,  moreover,  she  knew  this  too.  Actually  they 
were  working  together,  hand  in  hand,  to  hasten  its  in- 
evitable arrival.  They  merely  used  such  instruments  as 
fate  offered,  however  trivial,  however  clumsy.  They 
were  being  driven.  They  could  neither  choose  nor  re- 
sist. He  found  a  germ  of  subtle  comfort  in  the  thought. 
The  Wave  was  under  them.  Upon  its  tumultuous  vol- 
ume they  swept  forward,  side  by  side  ....  striking  out 
wildly. 

"And  will  you  also  post  it  for  me  when  you  go?"  he 
heard.  "I'll  just  add  a  line  to  finish  up  with."  Tom 
watched  her  open  the  writing-block  again  and  trace  a 
hurried  sentence  or  two;  she  did  it  openly;  he  saw  the 
neat,  small  words  flow  from  the  nib;  he  saw  the  signa- 
ture :  "Lettice." 

"Fasten  it  down  for  me,  Tom,  will  you?  It's  such 
an  ugly  thing  for  a  woman  to  do.  It's  absurd  that  sci- 
ence can't  invent  a  better  way  of  closing  an  envelope, 
isn't  it  ?"  He  was  oddly  helpless ;  she  forced  him  to  obey 
out  of  some  greater  knowledge.  And  while  he  did  the 
ungraceful  act,  their  eyes  met  across  the  table.  It  was 
the  other  person  in  her — the  remote,  barbaric,  eastern 
woman,  set  somehow  in  power  over  him — who  watched 
him  seal  his  own  discomfiture,  and  smiled  to  know  his 
obedience  had  to  be.  It  was,  indeed,  as  though  she  tor- 
tured him  deliberately. 

For  a  passing  second  Tom  felt  this — then  the  strange 


The  Wave  295 

exaggeration  vanished.  They  played  a  game  together. 
All  this  had  been  before.  They  looked  back  upon  it, 
looked  down  from  a  point  above  it.  ...  Tom  could  not 
read  her  heart,  but  he  could  read  his  own. 

In  a  few  minutes  at  most  all  this  happened.  He  put 
the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  Lettice  turned  to  her  cousin, 
challenge  in  her  manner,  an  air  of  victory  as  well.  And 
Tom  felt  he  shared  that  victory  somehow  too.  It  was 
a  curious  moment,  charged  with  a  subtle  perplexity  of 
emotions  none  of  them  quite  understood.  It  held  such 
singular  contradictions. 

"There,  Ettie!"  she  exclaimed,  as  much  as  to  say 
"Now  you  can't  scold  me  any  more.  You  see  how  little 
Mr.  Kelverdon  minds !" 

While  she  flitted  into  the  next  room  to  fetch  a  stamp, 
Mrs.  Haughstone,  her  needles  arrested  in  mid-air,  looked 
steadily  at  Tom.  Her  face  was  white.  She  had  watched 
the  little  scene  intently. 

"The  only  thing  I  cannot  understand,  Mr.  Kelverdon," 
she  said  in  a  low  tone,  her  voice  both  indignant  and  sym- 
pathetic, "is  how  my  cousin  can  give  pain  to  a  man  like 
you.  It's  the  most  heartless  thing  I've  ever  seen." 

"Me!"  gasped  Tom.     "But  I  don't  understand  you!" 

"And  for  a  creature  like  that!"  she  went  on  quickly, 
as  Lettice  was  heard  in  the  passage;  "a  libertine" — she 
almost  hissed  the  word  out — "who  thinks  every  pretty 
woman  is  made  for  his  amusement — and  false  into  the 
bargain — " 

Tom  put  the  stamp  on.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was 
again  walking  along  the  narrow  little  Luxor  street,  the 
sentences  just  heard  still  filling  the  silent  air  about  him, 
emotions  charging  wildly,  each  detail  of  the  familiar  lit- 
tle journey  associated  already  with  present  pain  and 
with  prophecies  of  pain  to  come.  The  bewilderment  and 
confusion  in  him  were  beyond  all  quieting.  One  moment 
.he  saw  the  picture  of  a  slender  foot  that  deliberately 
crushed  life  into  the  dust,  the  next  he  gazed  into  gentle, 


296  The  Wave 

loving  eyes  that  would  brim  with  tears  if  a  single  hair  of 
his  head  were  injured. 

A  cold  and  mournful  wind  blew  down  the  street,  ruf- 
fling the  darkened  river.  The  black  line  of  hills  he  could 
not  see.  Mystery,  enchantment  hung  in  the  very  air. 
The  long  dry  fingers  of  the  palm  trees  rattled  overhead, 
and  looking  up,  he  saw  the  divine  light  of  the  starry 
heavens.  .  .  .  Surely  among  those  comforting  stars  he 
saw  her  radiant  eyes  as  well.  .  .  . 

A  voice,  asking  in  ridiculous  English  the  direction  to  a 
certain  house,  broke  his  reverie,  and,  turning  round,  he 
saw  the  sheeted  figure  of  an  Arab  boy,  the  bright  eyes 
gleaming  in  the  mischievous  little  face  of  bronze.  He 
pointed  out  the  gateway,  and  the  boy  slipped  off  into  the 
darkness,  his  bare  feet  soundless  and  mysterious  on  the 
sand.  He  disappeared  up  the  driveway  to  the  house — her 
house.  Tom  knew  quite  well  from  whom  the  telegram 
came.  Tony  had  telegraphed  to  let  her  know  of  his  safe 
arrival.  So  even  that  was  necessary!  "And  to-morrow 
morning,"  he  thought,  "he'll  get  my  letter  too.  He'll 
come  posting  back  again  the  very  next  day."  He 
clenched  his  teeth  a  moment;  he  shuddered.  Then  he 
added:  "So  much  the  better!"  and  walked  on  quickly 
up  the  street.  He  posted  her  letter  at  the  corner. 

He  went  up  to  his  bedroom.  His  sleepless  nights  had 
begun  now.  .  .  . 

What  was  the  use  of  thinking,  he  asked  himself  as  the 
hours  passed?  What  good  did  it  do  to  put  the  same 
questions  over  and  over  again,  to  pass  from  doubt  to 
certainty,  only  to  be  flung  back  again  from  certainty  to 
doubt  ?  Was  there  no  discoverable  center  where  the  pen- 
dulum ceased  from  swinging?  How  could  she  be  at  the 
same  time  both  cruel  and  tender,  both  true  and  false, 
frank  and  secretive,  spiritual  and  sensual?  Each  of 
these  pairs,  he  realized,  was  really  a  single  state  of  which 
the  adjectives  represented  the  extremes  at  either  end. 
They  were  ripples.  The  central  personality  traveled  in 


The  Wave 


297 


one  or  other  direction  according  to  circumstances,  accord- 
ing to  the  pull  or  push  of  forces — the  main  momentum  of 
the  parent  wave.  But  there  was  a  point  where  the  heart 
felt  neither  one  nor  other,  neither  cruel  nor  tender,  false 
nor  true.  Where,  on  the  thermometer,  did  heat  begin 
and  cold  come  to  an  end  ?  Love  and  hate,  similarly,  were 
extremes  of  one  and  the  same  emotion.  Love,  he  well 
knew,  could  turn  to  virulent  hatred — if  something 
checked  and  forced  it  back  upon  the  line  of  natural  ad- 
vance. Could,  then,  her  tenderness  be  thus  reversed, 
turning  into  cruelty.  ...  Or  was  this  cruelty  but  the 
awakening  in  her  of  another  thing?  .  .  . 

Possibly.  Yet  at  the  center,  that  undiscovered  center 
at  present  beyond  his  reach,  Lettice,  he  knew,  remained 
unalterably  steadfast.  There  he  felt  the  absolute  assur- 
ance she  was  his  exclusively.  His  center,  moreover, 
coincided  with  her  own.  They  were  in  the  "sea"  to- 
gether. But  to  get  back  into  the  sea,  the  Wave  now 
rolling  under  them  must  first  break  and  fall.  .  .  . 

The  sooner,  then,  the  better !  They  would  swing  back 
with  it  together  eventually. 

He  chose,  that  is — without  knowing  it — a  higher  way 
of  molding  destiny.  It  was  the  spiritual  way,  whose 
method  and  secret  lie  in  that  subtle  paradox:  Yield  to 
conquer. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

YES,  she  was  always  "tired"  now,  though  the  "al- 
ways" meant  but  three  days  at  most.  It  was  the 
starving  sense  of  loneliness,  the  aching  sense  of  loss,  the 
yearning  and  the  vain  desire  that  made  it  seem  so  long. 
Lettice  evaded  him  with  laughter  in  her  eyes,  or  with  a 
tired  smile.  But  the  laughter  was  for  another.  It  was 
merciless  and  terrible — so  slightly,  faintly  indicated,  yet 
so  overwhelmingly  convincing. 

The  talk  between  them  rarely  touched  reality,  as 
though  a  barrier  deadened  their  very  voices.  Even  her 
mothering  became  exasperating;  it  was  so  unforced  and 
natural;  it  seemed  still  so  right  that  she  should  show 
solicitude  for  his  physical  welfare.  And  therein  lay  the 
anguish  and  the  poignancy.  Yet,  while  he  resented  fierce- 
ly, knowing  this  was  all  she  had  to  offer  now,  he  strug- 
gled at  the  same  time  to  accept.  One  moment  he  re- 
sisted, the  next  accepted.  One  hour  he  believed  in  her, 
the  next  he  disbelieved.  Hope  and  fear  alternately  made 
tragic  sport  of  him. 

Two  personalities  fought  for  possession  of  his  soul, 
and  he  could  not  always  keep  back  the  lower  of  the  two. 
They  interpenetrated — as,  at  Dehr-el-Bahri,  two  scenes 
had  interpenetrated,  something  very  very  old  projected 
upon  a  modern  screen. 

Lettice  too — he  was  convinced  of  it — was  undergoing 
a  similar  experience  in  herself.  Only  in  her  case  just 
now  it  was  the  lower,  the  primitive,  the  physical  aspect 
that  was  uppermost.  She  clung  to  Tony,  yet  struggled 
to  keep  Tom.  She  could  not  help  herself.  And  he  him- 
self, knowing  he  must  shortly  go,  still  clung  and  hesi- 
tated, hoping  against  hope.  More  and  more -now,  until 

298 


The  Wave  299 

the  end,  he  was  aware  that  he  stood  outside  his  present- 
day  self,  and  above  it.  He  looked  back — looked  down — 
upon  former  emotions  and  activities ;  and  hence  the  con- 
fusing alternating  of  jealousy  and  forgiveness. 

There  were  revealing  little  incidents  from  time  to  time. 
On  the  following  afternoon  he  found  her,  for  instance, 
radiant  with  that  exuberant  happiness  he  had  learned 
now  to  distrust.  And  for  a  moment  he  half  believed 
again  that  the  menace  had  lifted  and  the  happiness  was 
for  him.  She  held  out  both  hands  towards  him,  while 
she  described  a  plan  for  going  to  Edfu  and  Abou  Simbel. 
His  heart  beat  wildly  for  a  second. 

"But  Tony  ?"  he  asked,  almost  before  he  knew  it.  "We 
can't  leave  him  out!" 

"Oh,  but  I've  had  a  letter."  And  as  she  said  it  his  eye 
caught  sight  of  a  bulky  envelope  lying  in  the  sand  be- 
side her  chair. 

"Good,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  when  is  he  coming  back  ? 
I  haven't  heard  from  him."  The  solid  ground  moved 
beneath  his  feet.  He  shivered,  even  in  the  blazing  heat. 

"To-morrow.  He  sends  you  all  sorts  of  messages  and 
says  that  something  you  wrote  made  him  very  happy. 
I  wonder  what  it  was,  Tom?" 

Behind  her  voice  he  heard  the  north  wind  rattling  in 
the  palms;  he  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  the  acacia  leaves 
as  well;  there  was  the  crashing  of  little  waves  upon  the 
river ;  but  a  deep,  deep  shadow  fell  upon  the  sky  and  blot- 
ted out  the  sunshine.  The  glory  vanished  from  the  day, 
leaving  in  its  place  a  painful  glare  that  hurt  the  eyes. 
The  soul  in  him  was  darkened. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  with  assumed  playfulness,  "but 
that's  my  secret!"  Men  do  smile,  he  remembered,  as 
they  are  led  to  execution. 

She  laughed  excitedly.    "I  shall  find  it  out— 

"You  will,"  he  burst  out  significantly,  "in  the  end." 

Then,  as  she  passed  him  to  go  into  the  house,  he  lost 
control  a  moment.  He  whispered  suddenly: 


300  The  Wave 

"Love  has  no  secrets,  Lettice,  anywhere.  We're  in  the 
Sea  together.  I  shall  never  let  you  go."  The  intensity 
in  his  manner  betrayed  him;  he  adored  her;  he  could 
not  hide  it. 

She  turned  an  instant,  standing  two  steps  above  him; 
the  sidelong  downward  glance  lent  to  her  face  a  touch 
of  royalty,  half  pitying,  half  imperious.  Her  exquisite, 
frail  beauty  held  a  strength  that  mocked  the  worship 
in  his  eyes  and  voice.  Almost — she  challenged  him: 

"Soothsayer!"  she  whispered  back  contemptuously. 
"Do  your  worst!" — and  was  gone  into  the  house. 

Desire  surged  wildly  in  him  at  that  moment;  impa- 
tience, scorn,  fury  even,  raised  their  heads;  he  felt  a 
savage  impulse  to  seize  her  with  violence,  force  her  to 
confess,  to  have  it  out  and  end  it  one  way  or  the  other. 
He  loathed  himself  for  submitting  to  her  cruelty,  for  it 
was  intentional  cruelty — she  made  him  writhe  and  suf- 
fer of  set  purpose.  And  something  barbaric  in  his  blood 
leaped  up  in  answer  to  the  savagery  in  her  own  .  .  . 
when  at  that  instant  he  heard  her  calling  softly : 

"Tom !  Come  indoors  a  moment ;  I  want  to  show  you 
something !" 

But  with  it  another  sentence  sprang  across  him  and 
was  gone.  Like  a  meteor  it  streaked  the  screen  of  mem- 
ory. Seize  it  he  could  not.  It  had  to  do  with  death — 
his  death.  There  was  a  thought  of  blood.  Outwardly 
what  he  heard,  however,  was  the  playful  little  sentence  of 
to-day.  "Come,  I  want  to  show  you  something." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  so  softly  calling  all  violence 
was  forgotten;  love  poured  back  in  a  flood  upon  him; 
he  would  go  through  fire  and  water  to  possess  her  in  the 
end.  In  this  strange  drama  she  played  her  inevitable 
part,  even  as  he  did ;  there  must  be  no  loss  of  self-control 
that  might  frustrate  the  coming  climax.  There  must  be 
no  thwarting.  If  he  felt  jealousy,  he  must  hide  it ;  anger, 
scorn,  desire  must  veil  their  faces. 

He  crossed  the  passage  and  stood  before  her  in  the 


The  Wave 


301 


darkened  room,  afraid  and  humble,  full  of  a  burning 
love  that  the  centuries  had  not  lessened,  and  that  no  con- 
ceivable cruelty  of  pain  could  ever  change.  Almost  he 
knelt  before  her.  Even  if  terrible,  she  was  utterly  ador- 
able. 

For  he  believed  she  was  about  to  make  a  disclosure 
that  would  lay  him  bleeding  in  the  dust ;  singularly  at  her 
mercy  he  felt,  his  heart  laid  bare  to  receive  the  final 
thrust  that  should  make  him  outcast.  Her  little  foot 
would  crush  him.  .  .  . 

The  long  green  blinds  kept  out  the  glare  of  the  sun- 
shine; and  at  first  he  saw  the  room  but  dimly.  Then, 
slowly,  the  white  form  emerged,  the  broad-brimmed  hat, 
the  hanging  violet  veil,  the  yellow  jacket  of  soft,  cling- 
ing silk,  the  long  white  gauntlet  gloves.  He  saw  her 
small  face  peering  through  the  dimness  at  him,  the  eyes 
burning  like  two  dark  precious  stones.  A  table  stood 
between  them.  There  was  a  square  white  object  on  it. 
A  moment's  bewilderment  stole  over  him.  Why  had  she 
called  him  in?  What  was  she  going  to  say?  Why  did 
she  choose  this  moment?  Was  it  the  threat  of  Tony's 
near  arrival  that  made  her  confession — and  his  dismissal 
— at  last  inevitable? 

Then,  suddenly,  that  night  in  the  London  theater 
flashed  back  across  his  mind — her  strange  absorption  in 
the  play,  the  look  of  pain  in  her  face,  the  little  conver- 
sation, the  sense  of  familiarity  that  hung  about  it  all. 
He  remembered  Tony's  words  later:  that  another  actor 
was  expected  with  whose  entry  the  piece  would  turn 
more  real — turn  tragic. 

He  waited.  The  dimness  of  the  room  was  like  the 
dimness  of  that  theater.  The  lights  were  lowered.  They 
played  their  little  parts.  The  audience  watched  and  lis- 
tened. 

"Tom,  dear,"  her  voice  came  floating  tenderly  across 
the  air.  "I  didn't  like  to  give  it  you  before  the  others. 
They  wouldn't  understand — they'd  laugh  at  us." 


302  The  Wave 

He  did  not  understand.  Surely  he  had  heard  indis- 
tinctly. He  waited,  saying  nothing.  The  tenderness  in 
her  voice  amazed  him.  He  had  expected  very  different 
words.  Yet  this  was  surely  Lettice  speaking,  the  Lettice 
of  his  spring-time  in  the  mountains  beside  the  calm  blue 
lake.  He  stared  hard.  For  the  voice  was  Lettice's,  but 
the  eyes  and  figure  were  another's.  He  was  again  aware 
of  two  persons  there — of  perplexing  and  bewildering 
struggle.  But  Lettice,  for  the  moment,  dominated  as  it 
seemed. 

"So  I  put  it  here,"  she  went  on  in  a  low  gentle  tone, 
"here,  Tommy,  on  the  table  for  you.  And  all  my  love 
is  in  it — my  first,  deep,  fond  love — our  childhood  love." 
She  leaned  down  and  forward,  her  face  in  her  hands, 
her  elbows  on  the  dark  cloth;  she  pushed  the  square, 
white  packet  across  to  him.  "God  bless  you,"  floated 
to  him  with  her  breath. 

The  struggle  in  her  seemed  very  patent  then.  Yet  in 
spite  of  that  other,  older  self  within  her,  it  was  still  the 
voice  of  Lettice.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  while  her  whisper  hung, 
as  it  were,  upon  the  air.  His  entire  body  seemed  a  sin- 
gle heart.  Exactly  what  he  felt  he  hardly  knew.  There 
was  a  simultaneous  collapse  of  several  huge  emotions  in 
him.  .  .  .  But  he  trusted  her.  ...  He  clung  to  that  be- 
loved voice.  For  she  called  him  "Tommy" ;  she  was  his 
mother;  love,  tenderness,  and  pity  emanated  from  her 
like  a  cloud  of  perfume.  He  heard  the  faint  rustle  of 
her  dress  as  she  bent  forward,  but  outside  he  heard  the 
dry,  harsh  rattle  of  the  palm  trees  in  the  northern  wind. 
And  in  that — was  terror. 

"What— what  is  it,  Lettice?"  The  voice  sounded  like 
a  boy's.  It  was  outrageous.  He  swallowed — with  an 
effort. 

"Tommy,  you — don't  mind?  You  will  take  it,  won't 
you?"  And  it  was  as  if  he  heard  her  saying  "Help  me 
.  .  ."  once  again,  "Trust  me  as  I  trust  you.  .  .  ." 


The  Wave  303 

Mechanically  he  put  his  hand  out  and  drew  the  object 
towards  him.  He  knew  then  what  it  was  and  what  was 
in  it.  He  was  glad  of  the  darkness,  for  there  was  a  ri- 
diculous moisture  in  his  eyes  now.  A  lump  was  in  his 
throat ! 

"Fve  been  neglecting  you.  You  haven't  had  a  thing 
for  ages.  You'll  take  it,  Tommy,  won't  you — dear?" 

The  little  foolish  words,  so  sweetly  commonplace,  fell 
like  balm  upon  an  open  wound.  He  already  held  the 
small  white  packet  in  his  hand.  He  looked  up  at  her. 
God  alone  knows  the  strain  upon  his  will  in  that  moment. 
Somehow  he  mastered  himself.  It  seemed  as  if  he  swal- 
lowed blood.  For  behind  the  mothering  words  lurked, 
he  knew,  the  other  self  that  any  minute  would  return. 

"Thank  you,  Lettice,  very  much,"  he  said  with  a 
strange  calmness,  and  his  voice  was  firm.  Whatever  hap- 
pened he  must  not  prevent  the  delivery  of  what  had  to 
be.  Above  all,  that  was  clear.  The  pain  must  come  in 
full  before  the  promised  joy. 

Was  it,  perhaps,  this  strength  in  him  that  drew  her? 
Was  it  his  moment  of  iron  self-mastery  that  brought  her 
with  outstretched,  clinging  arms  towards  him?  Was  it 
the  unshakable  love  in  him  that  threatened  the  temporary 
ascendency  of  that  other  in  her  who  gladly  tortured  him 
that  joy  might  come  in  a  morning  yet  to  break? 

For  she  stood  beside  him,  though  he  had  not  seen  her 
move.  She  was  close  against  his  shoulder,  nestling  as  of 
old.  It  was  surely  a  stage  effect.  A  trap-door  had 
opened  in  the  floor  of  his  consciousness ;  his  first,  early 
love  sheltered  in  his  aching  heart  again.  The  entire 
structure  of  the  drama  they  played  together  threatened 
to  collapse. 

"Tom  .  .  .  you  love  me  less?" 

He  held  her  to  him,  but  he  did  not  kiss  the  face  she 
turned  up  to  his.  Nor  did  he  speak. 

"You've  changed  somewhere?"  she  whispered.  "You, 
too,  have  changed?" 


304  The  Wave 

There  was  a  pause  before  he  found  words  that  he 
could  utter.  He  dared  not  yield.  To  do  so  would  be 
vain  in  any  case. 

"N— no,  Lettice.  But  I  can't  say  what  it  is.  .  There 
is  pain.  ...  It  has  turned  some  part  of  me  numb  .  .  . 
killed  something,  brought  something  else  to  life.  You 
will  come  back  to  me  .  .  .  but  not  quite  yet." 

In  spite  of  the  darkness,  he  saw  her  face  clearly  then. 
For  a  moment — it  seemed  so  easy — he  could  have  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her,  known  the  end  of  his  pres- 
ent agony  of  heart  and  mind.  She  would  have  come  back 
to  him,  Tony's  claim  obliterated  from  her  life.  The 
driving  power  that  forced  an  older  self  upon  her  had 
weakened  before  the  steadfast  love  he  bore  her.  She  was 
ready  to  capitulate.  The  little,  childish  present  in  his 
hands  was  offered  as  of  old.  .  .  .  Tears  rose  behind  his 
eyes. 

How  he  resisted,  he  never  understood.  Some  thor- 
oughness in  him  triumphed.  If  he  shirked  the  pain  to- 
day, it  would  have  to  be  faced  to-morrow — that  alone 
was  clear  in  his  breaking  heart.  To  be  worthy  of  the 
greater  love,  the  completer  joy  to  follow,  they  must  ac- 
cept the  present  pain  and  see  it  through — experience  it — 
exhaust  it  once  for  all.  To  refuse  it  now  was  only  to 
postpone  it.  She  must  go  her  way,  while  he  went  his.  .  .  . 

Gently  he  pushed  her  from  him,  released  his  hold ;  the 
little  face  slipped  from  his  shoulder  as  though  it  sank 
into  the  sea.  He  felt  that  she  understood.  He  heard 
himself  speaking,  though  how  he  chose  the  words  he 
never  knew.  Out  of  new  depths  in  himself  the  phrases 
rose — a  regenerated  Tom  uprising,  though  not  yet  sure 
of  himself: 

"You  are  not  wholly  mine.  I  must  first — oh,  Lettice! 
— learn  to  do  without  you.  It  is  you  who  say  it." 

Her  voice,  as  she  answered,  seemed  already  changed, 
a  shade  of  something  harder,  and  less  yielding  in  it: 

'That  which  you  can  do  without  is  added  to  you." 


The  Wave  305 

"A  new  thing  .  .  .  beginning,"  he  whispered,  feeling 
it  both  belief  and  prophecy.  His  whisper  broke  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  saw  her  across  the  room,  the  table  be- 
tween them  again.  Already  she  looked  different,  "Let- 
tice"  fading  from  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

She  said  a  marvelous,  sweet  thing  before  that  other 
self  usurped  her  then : 

"One  day,  Tom,  we  shall  find  each  other  in  a 
crowd.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  yearning  cry  in  him  he  did  not  utter.  It 
seemed  she  faded  from  the  atmosphere  as  the  dimness 
closed  about  her.  He  saw  a  darker  figure  with  burning 
eyes  upon  a  darker  face;  there  was  a  gleam  of  gold;  a 
faint  perfume  as  of  ambra  hung  about  the  air,  and  out- 
side the  palm  leaves  rattled  in  the  northern  wind.  He 
had  heard  awful  words,  it  seemed,  that  sealed  his  fate. 
He  was  forsaken,  lonely,  outcast.  It  was  a  sentence  of 
death,  for  she  was  set  in  power  over  him.  .  .  . 

A  flood  of  dazzling  sunshine  poured  into  the  room 
from  a  lifted  blind,  as  the  others  looked  in  from  the  ve- 
randah to  say  that  they  were  going  and  wanted  to  say 
good-by.  A  moment  later  all  were  discussing  plans  in 
the  garden,  Tom  as  loudly  and  eagerly  as  any  of  them. 
He  held  his  square  white  packet.  But  he  did  not  open  it 
till  he  reached  his  room  a  little  later,  and  then  arranged 
the  different  articles  in  a  row  upon  his  table:  the  fa- 
vorite cigarettes,  the  soap,  the  pair  of  white  tennis  socks 
with  his  initial  neatly  sewn  on,  the  tie  in  the  shade  of 
blue  that  suited  him  best  .  .  .  the  writing-pad  and  the 
dates ! 

A  letter  from  Tony  next  caught  his  eye  and  he  opened 
it,  slowly,  calmly,  almost  without  interest,  knowing  ex- 
actly what  it  would  say : 

"...  I  was  delighted,  old  chap,  to  get  your  note,"  he  read.  "I 
felt  sure  it  would  be  all  right,  for  I  felt  somehow  that  I  had  ex- 
aggerated your  feeling  towards  her.  As  you  say,  what  one  has 


306  The  Wave 

to  think  of  with  a  woman  in  so  delicate  a  position  is  her  happi- 
ness more  than  one's  own.  But  I  wouldn't  do  anything  to  offend 
you  or  cause  you  pain  for  worlds,  and  I'm  awfully  glad  to  know 
the  way  is  clear.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  went  away  on  purpose, 
for  I  felt  uneasy.  I  wanted  to  be  quite  sure  first  that  I  was  not 
trespassing.  She  made  me  feel  I  was  doing  you  no  wrong,  but 
I  wanted  your  assurance  too.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  in  similar  vein — he  laid 
the  burden  upon  her — ending  with  a  word  to  say  he  was 
coming  back  to  Luxor  immediately.  He  would  arrive  the 
following  day. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Tony  was  already  then  in  the  train 
that  left  Cairo  that  evening  and  reached  Luxor  at  eight 
o'clock  next  morning.  Tom,  who  had  counted  upon  an- 
other twenty-four  hours'  respite,  did  not  know  this;  nor 
did  he  know  till  later  that  another  telegram  had  been  car- 
ried by  a  ghostly  little  Arab  boy,  with  the  result  that 
Tony  and  Lettice  enjoyed  their  hot  rolls  and  coffee  alone 
together  in  the  shady  garden  where  the  cool  northern 
wind  rattled  among  the  palm  trees.  Mrs.  Haughstone 
mentioned  it  in  due  course,  however,  having  watched  the 
tete-a-tete  from  her  bedroom  window,  unobserved. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AND  next  day  there  was  one  more  revealing  incident 
that  helped,  yet  also  hindered  him,  as  he  moved 
along  his  via  dolorosa.  For  every  step  he  took  away 
from  her  seemed  also  to  bring  him  nearer.  They  fol- 
lowed opposing  curves  of  a  circle.  They  separated  ever 
more  widely,  back  to  back,  yet  were  approaching  each 
other  at  the  same  time.  They  would  meet  face  to 
face.  .  .  . 

He  found  her  at  the  piano,  practising  the  song  that 
now  ran  ever  in  his  blood;  the  score,  he  noticed,  was  in 
Tony's  writing. 

"Unwelcome !"  he  exclaimed,  reading  out  the  title  over 
her  shoulder. 

"Tom!  How  you  startled  me!  I  was  trying  to  learn 
it."  She  turned  to  him;  her  eyes  were  shining.  He 
was  aware  of  a  singular  impression — struggle,  effort 
barely  manageable.  Her  beauty  seemed  fresh  made;  he 
thought  of  a  wild-rose  washed  by  the  dew  and  sparkling 
in  the  sunlight. 

"I  thought  you  knew  it  already,"  he  observed. 

She  laughed  significantly,  looking  up  into  his  face  so 
close  he  could  have  kissed  her  lips  by  merely  bending  his 
head  a  few  inches.  "Not  quite — yet,"  she  answered. 
"Will  you  give  me  a  lesson,  Tom?" 

"Unpaid?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  reproachfully  at  him.  "The  best  services 
are  unpaid  always." 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  neither  the  patience  nor  the  knowl- 
edge," he  replied. 

Her  next  words  stirred  happiness  in  him  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  the  divine  trust  he  fought  to  keep  stole  from  his 

307 


308  The  Wave 

heart  into  his  eyes:  "But  you  would  never,  never  give 
up,  Tom,  no  matter  how  difficult  and  obstinate  the  pupil. 
You  would  always  understand.  That  I  know." 

He  moved  away.  Such  double-edged  talk,  even  in 
play,  was  dangerous.  A  deep  weariness  was  in  him, 
weakening  self-control.  Sensitive  to  the  slightest  touch 
just  then,  he  dared  not  let  her  torture  him  too  much.  He 
felt  in  her  a  strength  far,  far  beyond  his  own;  he  was 
powerless  before  her.  Had  Tony  been  present  he  could 
not  have  played  his  part  at  all.  Somehow  he  had  a  curi- 
ous feeling,  moreover,  that  his  cousin  was  not  very  far 
away. 

"Tony  will  be  here  later,  I  think,"  she  said,  as  she 
followed  him  outside.  "But,  if  not,  he's  sure  to  come 
to  dinner." 

"Good,"  he  replied,  thinking  that  the  train  arrived 
in  time  to  dress,  and  in  no  way  surprised  that  she  divined 
his  thoughts.  "We  can  decide  our  plans  then."  He 
added  that  he  might  be  obliged  to  go  back  to  Assouan, 
but  she  made  no  comment.  Speech  died  away  between 
them,  as  they  sat  down  in  the  old  familiar  corner  above 
the  Nile.  Tom,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say.  Lettice,  on  the  other  hand,  wanted  to  say 
nothing.  He  felt  that  she  had  nothing  to  say.  Behind, 
below  the  numbness  in  him,  meanwhile,  her  silence 
stabbed  him  without  ceasing.  The  intense  yearning  in 
his  heart  threatened  any  minute  to  burst  forth  in  ve- 
hement speech,  almost  in  action.  It  lay  accumulating 
in  him  dangerously,  ready  to  leap  out  at  the  least  sign — 
the  pin-prick  of  a  look,  a  word,  a  gesture  on  her  part, 
and  he  would  smash  the  barrier  down  between  them  and 
— ruin  all.  The  sight  of  Tony,  for  instance,  just  then 
must  have  been  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull. 

He  traced  figures  in  the  sand  with  his  heel,  he  listened 
to  the  wind  above  th£m,  he  never  ceased  to  watch  her 
motionless,  indifferent  figure  stretched  above  him  on  the 
long  deck-chair.  A  book  peeped  out  from  behind  the 


The  Wave  309 

cushion  where  her  head  rested.  Tom  put  his  hand  across 
and  took  it  suddenly,  partly  for  something  to  do,  partly 
from  curiosity  as  well.  She  made  a  quick,  restraining 
gesture,  then  changed  her  mind.  And  again  he  was  con- 
scious of  battle  in  her,  as  if  two  beings  fought. 

"The  Mary  Coleridge  Poems,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"Tony  gave  it  me.  You'll  find  the  song  he  put  to  music." 

Tom  vigorously  turned  the  leaves.  He  had  already 
glanced  at  the  title-page  with  the  small  inscription  in  one 
corner:  "To  L.  J.,  from  A.  W."  There  was  a  pencil- 
mark  against  a  poem  half-way  through. 

"He's  going  to  write  music  for  some  of  the  others  too," 
she  added,  watching  him;  "the  ones  he  has  marked." 
Her  voice,  he  fancied,  wavered  slightly. 

Tom  nodded  his  head.  "I  see/'  he  murmured,  notic- 
ing a  cross  in  pencil.  A  sullen  defiance  rose  in  his  blood, 
but  he  forced  it  out  of  sight.  He  read  the  words  in  a 
low  voice  to  himself.  It  was  astonishing  how  the  pow- 
ers behind  the  scenes  forced  a  contribution  from  the 
commonest  incidents : 

The  sum  of  loss  I  have  not  reckoned  yet, 

I  cannot  tell. 
For  ever  it  was  morning  when  we  met, 

Night  when  we  bade  farewell. 

Perhaps  the  words  let  loose  the  emotion,  though  of 
different  kinds,  pent  up  behind  their  silence.  The  strain, 
at  any  rate,  between  them  tightened  first,  then  seemed 
to  split.  He  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  page  before  him; 
Lettice,  too,  remained  still  as  before ;  only  her  lips  moved 
as  she  spoke: 

"Tom.  .  .  ."  The  voice  plunged  into  his  heart  like 
iron. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  without  looking  up. 

"Tom,"  she  repeated,  "what  are  you  thinking  about  so 
hard?" 

He  found  no  answer. 


310  The  Wave 

"And  all  to  yourself?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  face;  her  voice  was  so  soft. 

He  met  her  eyes  and  smiled.  "The  same  as  usual,  I 
suppose/'  he  said. 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply,  then,  glancing  at 
the  book  lying  in  his  hand,  she  said  in  a  lower  voice: 
"That  woman  had  suffered  deeply.  There's  truth  and 
passion  in  every  word  she  writes;  there's  a  marvelous 
restraint  as  well.  Tom,"  she  added,  gazing  hard  at  him, 
"you  feel  it,  don't  you?  You  understand  her?"  For 
an  instant  she  knit  her  brows  as  if  in  perplexity  or  mis- 
giving. 

"The  truth,  yes,"  he  replied  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion; "the  restraint  as  well." 

"And  the  passion?" 

He  nodded  curtly  by  way  of  agreement.  He  turned 
the  pages  over  very  rapidly.  His  fingers  were  as  thick 
and  clumsy  as  rigid  bits  of  wood.  He  fumbled. 

"Will  you  read  it  once  again?"  she  asked.  He  did  so 
...  in  a  low  voice.  With  difficulty  he  reached  the  end. 
There  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes  and  his  voice  seemed 
confused.  He  dared  not  look  up. 

"There's  a  deep  spiritual  beauty,"  he  went  on  slowly, 
making  an  enormous  effort,  "that's  what  I  feel  strong- 
est, I  think.  There's  renunciation,  sacrifice " 

He  was  going  to  say  more,  for  he  felt  the  words  surge 
up  in  his  throat.  This  talk,  he  knew,  was  a  mere  safety 
valve  to  both  of  them;  they  used  words  as  people  at- 
tacked by  laughter  out  of  due  season  seize  upon  anything, 
however  far-fetched,  that  may  furnish  excuse  for  it. 
The  flood  of  language  and  emotion  too  long  suppressed, 
again  rose  to  his  very  lips — when  a  slight  sound  stopped 
his  utterance.  He  turned.  Amazement  caught  him. 
Her  frozen  immobility,  her  dead  indifference,  her  bore- 
dom possibly — all  these,  passing  suddenly,  had  melted  in 
a  flood  of  tears.  Her  face  was  covered  by  her  hands. 
She  lay  there  sobbing  within  a  foot  of  his  hungry  arms, 


The  Wave  311 

sobbing  as  though  her  heart  must  break.  He  saw  the 
drops  between  her  little  fingers,  trickling. 

It  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  Tom  felt  un- 
able to  speak  or  act  at  first.  Numbness  seized  him.  His 
faculties  were  arrested.  He  watched  her,  saw  the  little 
body  heave  down  its  entire  length,  noted  the  small  con- 
vulsive movements  of  it.  He  saw  all  this,  yet  he  could 
not  do  the  natural  thing.  It  was  very  ghastly.  .  .  .  He 
could  not  move  a  muscle,  he  could  not  say  a  single  word, 
he  could  not  comfort  her — because  he  knew  those  tears 
were  the  tears  of  pity  only.  It  was  for  himself  she 
sobbed.  The  tenderness  in  her — in  "Lettice" — broke 
down  before  his  weight  of  pain,  the  weight  of  pain  she 
herself  laid  upon  him.  Nothing  that  he  might  do  or  say 
could  comfort  her.  Divining  what  the  immediate  future 
held  in  store  for  him,  she  wept  these  burning  tears  of 
pity.  In  that  poignant  moment  of  self-revelation  Tom's 
cumbersome  machinery  of  intuition  did  not  fail  him.  He 
understood.  It  was  a  confession — the  last  perhaps.  He 
saw  ahead  with  vivid  and  merciless  clarity  of  vision. 
Only  another  could  comfort  her.  .  .  .  Yet  he  could  help. 
Yes — he  could  help — by  going.  There  was  no  other  way. 
He  must  slip  out. 

And,  as  if  prophetically  just  then,  she  murmured  be- 
tween her  tight-pressed  fingers :  "Leave  me,  Tom,  for  a 
moment  .  .  .  please  go  away  .  .  .  I'm  so  mortified  .  .  . 
this  idiotic  scene.  .  .  .  Leave  me  a  little,  then  come  back. 
I  shall  be  myself  again  presently.  .  .  .  It's  Egypt — this 
awful  Egypt.  .  .  ." 

Tom  obeyed.  He  got  up  and  left  her,  moving  without 
feeling  in  his  legs,  as  though  he  walked  in  his  sleep,  as 
though  he  dreamed,  as  though  he  were — dead.  He  did 
not  notice  the  direction.  He  walked  mechanically.  It 
felt  to  him  that  he  simply  walked  clean  out  of  her  life 
into  a  world  of  emptiness  and  ice  and  shadows.  .  .  . 

The  river  lay  below  him  in  a  flood  of  light.  He  saw 
the  Theban  Hills  rolling  their  dark,  menacing  wave  along 


312  The  Wave 

the  far  horizon.  In  the  blistering  heat  the  desert  lay  sun- 
drenched, basking,  silent.  Its  faint  sweet  perfume  reached 
him  in  the  northern  wind,  that  pungent  odor  of  the  sand, 
which  is  the  odor  of  this  sun-baked  land  etherealized. 

A  fiery  intensity  of  light  lay  over  it,  as  though  any 
moment  it  must  burst  into  sheets  of  flame.  So  intense 
was  the  light  that  it  seemed  to  let  sight  through  to — to 
what?  To  a  more  distant  vision,  infinitely  remote.  It 
was  not  a  mirror,  but  a  transparency.  The  eyes  slipped 
through  it  marvelously. 

He  stood  on  the  steps  of  worn-out  sandstone,  listen- 
ing, staring,  feeling  nothing  .  .  .  and  then  a  little  song 
came  floating  across  the  air  towards  him,  sung  by  a  boat- 
man in  mid-stream.  It  was  a  native  melody,  but  it  had 
the  strange,  monotonous  lilt  of  Tony's  old-Egyptian  mel- 
ody. .  .  .  And  feeling  stole  back  upon  him,  alternately 
burning  and  freezing  the  currents  of  his  blood.  The 
childhood  nightmare  touch  crept  into  him:  he  saw  the 
wavelike  outline  of  the  gloomy  hills,  he  heard  the  wind 
rattling  in  the  leaves  behind  him,  to  his  nostrils  came  the 
strange,  penetrating  perfume  of  the  tawny  desert  that 
encircles  ancient  Thebes,  and  in  the  air  before  him  hung 
two  pairs  of  eyes,  dark,  faithful  eyes,  cruel  and  at  the 
same  time  tender,  true  yet  merciless,  and  the  others — 
treacherous,  false,  light  blue  in  color.  ...  He  began  to 
shuffle  furiously  with  his  feet.  .  .  .  The  soul  in  him  went 
under.  .  .  .  He  turned  to  face  the  menace  coming  up  be- 
hind .  .  .  the  falling  Wave. 

"Tom !"  he  heard — and  turned  back  towards  her.  And 
when  he  reached  her  side,  she  had  so  entirely  regained 
composure  that  he  could  hardly  believe  it  was  the  same 
person.  Fresh  and  radiant  she  looked  once  more,  no  sign 
of  tears,  no  traces  of  her  recent  emotion  anywhere.  Per- 
haps the  interval  had  been  longer  than  he  guessed,  but,  in 
any  case,  the  change  was  swift  and  half  unaccountable. 
In  himself,  equally,  was  a  calmness  that  seemed  unnat- 
ural. He  heard  himself  speaking  in  an  even  tone  about 


The  Wave  313 

the  view,  the  river,  the  gold  of  the  coming  sunset.  He 
wished  to  spare  her,  he  talked  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, he  mentioned  the  deep  purple  color  of  the  hills — 
when  she  broke  out  with  sudden  vehemence. 

"Oh,  don't  speak  of  those  hills,  those  awful  hills,"  she 
cried.  "I  dread  the  sight  of  them.  Last  night  I  dreamed 
again — they  crushed  me  down  into  the  sand.  I  felt  bur- 
ied beneath  them,  deep,  deep  down — buried."  She  whis- 
pered the  last  word  as  though  to  herself. 

The  words  amazed  him.  He  caught  the  passing  shiver 
in  her  voice. 

"'Again'?"  he  asked.  "You've  dreamed  of  them  be- 
fore ?"  He  stood  close,  looking  down  at  her.  The  sense 
of  his  own  identity  returned  slowly,  yet  he  still  felt  two 
persons  in  him. 

"Often  and  often,"  she  said  in  a  lowered  tone,  "since 
Tony  came.  I  dream  that  we  all  three  lie  buried  some- 
where in  that  forbidding  valley.  It  terrifies  me  more 
and  more  each  time." 

"Strange,"  he  said.  "For  they  draw  me  too.  I  feel 
them  somehow  known — familiar."  He  paused.  "I  be- 
lieve Tony  was  right,  you  know,  when  he  said  that  we 
three " 

How  she  stopped  him  he  never  quite  understood.  At 
first  he  thought  the  curious  movement  on  her  face  por- 
tended tears  again,  but  the  next  second  he  saw  that  in- 
stead of  tears  a  slow  strange  smile  was  stealing  upon  her 
— upwards  from  the  mouth.  It  lay  upon  her  features  for 
a  second  only,  but  long  enough  to  alter  them.  A  thin, 
diaphanous  mask,  transparent,  swiftly  fleeting,  passed 
over  her,  and  through  it  another  woman,  yet  herself, 
peered  up  at  him  with  a  penetrating  yet  somehow  distant 
gaze.  A  shudder  ran  down  his  spine ;  there  was  a  sensa- 
tion of  inner  cold  against  his  heart ;  he  trembled,  but  he 
could  not  look  away.  .  .  .  He  saw  in  that  brief  instant 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  tortured  him.  The  same 
second,  so  swiftly  was  it  gone  again,  he  saw  Lettice 


The  Wave 

watching  him  through  half-closed  eyelids.  He  heard  her 
saying  something.  She  was  completing  the  sentence  that 
had  interrupted  him: 

"We're  too  imaginative,  Tom.  Believe  me,  Egypt  is 
no  place  to  let  imagination  loose,  and  I  don't  like  it." 
She  sighed :  there  was  exhaustion  in  her.  "It's  stimu- 
lating enough  without  our  help.  Besides — "  she  used 
a  curious  adjective — "it's  dangerous  too." 

Tom  willingly  let  the  subject  drop;  his  own  desire  was 
to  appear  natural,  to  protect  her,  to  save  her  pain.  He 
thought  no  longer  of  himself.  Drawing  upon  all  his 
strength,  forcing  himself  almost  to  breaking-point,  he 
talked  quietly  of  obvious  things,  while  longing  secretly 
to  get  away  to  riis  own  room  where  he  could  be  alone. 
He  craved  to  hide  himself ;  like  a  stricken  animal  his  in- 
stinct was  to  withdraw  from  observation. 

The  arrival  of  the  tea-tray  helped  him,  and,  while 
they  drank,  the  sky  let  down  the  emblazoned  curtain  of 
a  hundred  colors  lest  Night  should  bring  her  diamonds 
unnoticed,  unannounced.  There  is  no  dusk  in  Egypt; 
the  sun  draws  on  his  opal  hood;  there  is  a  rush  of  soft 
white  stars :  the  desert  cools,  and  the  wind  turns  icy. 
Night,  high  on  her  spangled  throne,  watches  the  sun  dip 
down  behind  the  Lybian  sands. 

Tom  felt  this  coming  of  Night  as  he  sat  there,  so  close 
to  Lettice  that  he  could  touch  her  fingers,  feel  her  breath, 
catch  the  lightest  rustle  of  her  thin  white  dress.  He 
felt  night  creeping  in  upon  his  heart.  Swiftly  the  shad- 
ows piled.  His  soul  seemed  draped  in  blackness,  drained 
of  its  shining  gold,  hidden  below  the  horizon  of  the 
years.  It  sank  out  of  sight,  cold,  lost,  forgotten.  His 
day  was  past  and  over.  .  .  . 

They  had  been  sitting  silent  for  some  minutes  when  a 
voice  became  audible,  singing  in  the  distance.  It  came 
nearer.  Tom  recognized  the  tune — "We  were  young,  we 
were  merry,  we  were  very,  very  wise" ;  and  Lettice  sat 
up  suddenly  to  listen.  But  Tom  then  thought  of  one 


The  Wave  315 

thing  only — that  it  was  beyond  his  power  just  now  to 
meet  his  cousin.  He  knew  his  control  was  not  equal  to 
the  task;  he  would  betray  himself;  the  role  was  too  ex- 
acting. He  rose  abruptly. 

"That  must  be  Tony  coming,"  Lettice  said.  "His  tea 
will  be  all  cold !"  Each  word  was  a  caress,  each  syllable 
alive  with  interest,  sympathy,  excited  anticipation.  She 
had  become  suddenly  alive.  Tom  saw  her  eyes  shining 
as  she  gazed  past  him  down  the  darkening  drive.  He 
made  his  absurd  excuse.  "I'm  going  home  to  rest  a  bit, 
Lettice.  I  played  tennis  too  hard.  The  sun's  given  me 
a  headache.  We'll  meet  later.  You'll  keep  Tony  for 
dinner  ?"  His  mind  had  begun  to  work,  too ;  the  evening 
train  from  Cairo,  he  remembered,  was  not  due  for  an 
hour  or  more  yet.  A  hideous  suspicion  rushed  like  fire 
through  him. 

But  he  asked  no  question.  He  knew  they  wished  to  be 
alone  together.  Yet  also  he  had  a  wild,  secret  hope  that 
she  would  be  disappointed.  He  was  speedily  undeceived. 

"All  right,  Tom,"  she  answered,  hardly  looking  at 
him.  "And  mind  you're  not  late.  Eight  o'clock  sharp. 
I'll  make  Tony  stay." 

He  was  gone.  He  chose  the  path  along  the  river  bank 
instead  of  going  by  the  drive.  He  did  not  look  back  once. 
It  was  when  he  entered  the  road  a  little  later  that  he  met 
Mrs.  Haughstone  coming  home  from  a  visit  to  some 
friends  in  his  hotel.  It  was  then  she  told  him.  .  .  . 

"What  a  surprise  you  must  have  had,"  Tom  believes  he 
said  in  reply.  He  said  something,  at  any  rate,  that  he 
hoped  sounded  natural  and  right. 

"Oh,  no,"  Mrs.  Haughstone  explained.  "We  were 
quite  prepared.  Lettice  had  a  telegram,  you  see,  to  let 
her  know." 

She  told  him  other  things  as  well.  .  .  . 


PART  IV 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

TONY  had  come  back.  The  Play  turned  very  real. 
The  situation  a  trois  thenceforward  became,  for 
Tom,  an  acutely  afflicting  one.  He  found  no  permanent 
resting-place  for  heart  or  mind.  He  analyzed,  asked 
himself  questions  without  end,  but  a  final  decisive  judg- 
ment evaded  him.  He  wrote  letters  and  tore  them  up 
again.  He  hid  himself  in  Assouan  with  belief  for  a  com- 
panion, he  came  back  and  found  that  companion  had 
been  but  a  masquerader — dis-belief.  Suspicion  grew 
confirmed  into  conviction.  Vanity  persuaded  him  against 
the  weight  of  evidence,  then  left  him  naked  with  his 
facts.  He  wanted  to  kill,  first  others,  then  himself. 
He  laughed,  but  the  same  minute  he  could  have  cried. 
Such  complicated  tangles  of  emotion  were  beyond  his 
solving — it  amazed  him;  such  prolonged  and  incessant 
torture,  so  delicately  applied — he  marveled  that  a  hu- 
man heart  could  bear  it  without  breaking.  For  the  af- 
fection and  sympathy  he  felt  for  his  cousin  refused  to 
die,  while  his  worship  and  passion  towards  an  unre- 
sponsive woman  increasingly  consumed  him. 

He  no  longer  recognized  himself,  his  cousin,  Lettice; 
all  three,  indeed,  were  singularly  changed.  Each  du- 
plicated into  a  double  role.  Towards  their  former  selves 
he  kept  his  former  attitude — of  affection,  love,  belief; 
towards  the  usurping  selves  he  felt — he  knew  not  what. 
Therefore  he  drifted.  .  .  Strange,  mysterious,  tender, 
unfathomable  Woman!  Vain,  primitive,  self-sufficing, 
confident  Man !  In  him  the  masculine  tried  to  reason  and 
analyze  to  the  very  end ;  in  her  the  feminine  interpreted 
intuitively:  the  male  and  female  attitudes,  that  is,  held 
true  throughout  The  Wave  swept  him  forward  irre- 

3i9 


320  The  Wave 

sistibly,  his  very  soul,  it  seemed,  went  shuffling  to  find 
solid  ground.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  however,  no  one  broke  the  rules — rules 
that  apparently  had  made  themselves  subtle  and  delicate, 
it  took  place  mostly  out  of  sight,  as  it  were,  inside  the 
heart.  Below  the  mask  of  ordinary  surface-conduct  all 
agreed  to  wear,  the  deeper,  inevitable  intercourse  pro- 
ceeded, a  Play  within  a  Play,  a  tragedy  concealed  thinly 
by  general  consent  under  the  most  commonplace  comedy 
imaginable.  All  acted  out  their  parts,  rehearsed,  it 
seemed,  of  long  ago.  For,  more  and  more,  it  came  to 
Tom  that  the  one  thing  he  must  never  lose,  whatever  hap- 
pened, was  his  trust  in  her.  He  must  cling  to  that  though 
it  cost  him  all — trust  in  her  love  and  truth  and  constancy. 
This  singular  burden  seemed  laid  upon  his  soul.  If  he 
lost  that  trust  and  that  belief,  the  Wave  could  never 
break,  she  could  never  justify  that  trust  and  that  be- 
lief. 

This  "enchantment"  that  tortured  him,  straining  his 
whole  being,  was  somehow  a  test  indeed  of  his  final  wor- 
thiness to  win  her.  Somehow,  somewhence,  he  owed 
her  this.  .  .  .  He  dared  not  fail.  For  if  he  failed  the 
Wave  that  should  sweep  her  back  into  the  "sea"  with  him 
would  not  break — he  would  merely  go  on  shuffling  with 
his  feet  to  the  end  of  life.  Tony  and  Lettice  conquered 
him  till  he  lay  bleeding  in  the  sand ;  Tom  played  the  role 
of  loss — obediently  almost ;  the  feeling  that  they  were  set 
in  power  over  him  persisted  strangely.  It  dominated,  at 
any  rate,  the  resistance  he  would  otherwise  have  offered. 
He  must  learn  to  do  without  her  in  order  that  she  might 
in  the  end  be  added  to  him.  Thus,  and  thus  alone,  could 
he  find  himself,  and  reach  the  level  where  she  lived. 
He  took  his  fate  from  her  gentle,  merciless  hands,  well 
knowing  that  it  had  to  be.  In  some  marvelous,  sweet 
way  the  sacrifice  would  bring  her  back  again  at  last,  but 
bring  her  back  completed- — and  to  a  Tom  worthy  of  her 
love.  The  self-centered,  confident  man  in  him  that 


The  Wave  321 

deemed  itself  indispensable  must  crumble.     To  find  re- 
generation he  must  risk  destruction. 

Events — yet  always  inner  events — moved  with  such 
rapidity  then  that  he  lost  count  of  time.  The  barrier 
never  lowered  again.  He  played  his  ghastly  part  in  si- 
lence— always  inner  silence.  Out  of  sight,  below  the  sur- 
face, the  deep  wordless  Play  continued.  With  Tony's 
return  the  drama  hurried.  The  actor  all  had  been  wait- 
ing for  came  on,  and  took  the  center  of  the  stage,  and 
stayed  until  the  curtain  fell — a  few  weeks,  all  told,  of 
their  short  Egyptian  winter. 

In  the  crowded  rush  of  action  Tom  felt  the  Wave — 
bend,  break,  and  smash  him.  At  its  highest  moment  he 
saw  the  stars,  at  its  lowest  the  crunch  of  shifting  gravel 
filled  his  ears,  the  mud  blinded  sight,  the  rubbish  choked 
his  breath.  Yet  he  had  seen  those  distant  stars.  .  .  . 
Into  the  mothering  sea,  as  he  sank  back,  the  memory  of 
the  light  went  with  him.  It  was  a  kind  of  incredible 
performance,  half  on  earth  and  half  in  the  air :  it  rushed 
with  such  impetuous  momentum. 

Amid  the  intensity  of  his  human  emotions,  meanwhile, 
he  lost  sight  of  any  subtler  hints,  if  indeed  they  offered : 
he  saw  no  veiled  eastern  visions  any  more,  divined  no 
psychic  warnings.  His  agony  of  blinding  pain,  alternat- 
ing with  briefest  intervals  of  shining  hope  when  he  re- 
covered belief  in  her  and  called  himself  the  worst  names 
he  could  think  of — this  seething  warfare  of  cruder  feel- 
ings left  no  part  of  him  sensitive  to  the  delicate  prompt- 
ings of  finer  forces,  least  of  all  to  the  tracery  of  fancied 
memories.  He  only  gasped  for  breath — sufficient  to  keep 
himself  afloat  and  cry,  as  he  had  promised  he  would  cry, 
even  to  the  bitter  end :  "I'll  face  it  ...  I'll  stick  it  out 
.  .  .  I'll  trust  .  .  .  !" 

The  setting  of  the  Play  was  perfect ;  in  Egypt  alone 
was  its  production  possible.  The  brilliant  lighting,  the 
fathomless,  soft  shadows,  deep  covering  of  blue  by  day, 
clear  stars  by  night,  the  solemn  hills,  and  the  slow,  eternal 


322  The  Wave 

river — all  these,  against  the  huge  background  of  the  Des- 
ert, silent,  golden,  lonely,  formed  the  adequate  and  true 
environment.  In  no  other  country,  in  England  least  of 
all,  could  the  presentation  have  been  real.  Tony,  himself, 
and  Lettice  belonged,  one  and  all,  it  seemed,  to  Egypt — 
yet,  somehow,  not  wholly  to  the  Egypt  of  the  tourist 
hordes  and  dragoman,  and  big  hotels.  The  Onlooker  hi 
him,  who  stood  aloof  and  held  a  watching  brief,  looked 
down  upon  an  ancient  land  unvexed  by  railways,  gra- 
ciously clothed  and  colored  gorgeously,  mapped  burn- 
ingly  mid  fiercer  passions,  eager  for  life,  contemptuous  of 
death.  He  did  not  understand,  but  that  it  was  thus,  not 
otherwise,  he  knew.  .  .  . 

Her  beauty,  too,  both  physical  and  spiritual,  became 
for  him  strangely  heightened.  He  shifted  between  moods 
of  worship  that  were  alternately  physical  and  spiritual. 
In  the  former  he  pictured  her  with  darker  coloring,  half 
barbaric,  eastern,  her  slender  figure  flitting  through  a 
grove  of  palms  beyond  a  river  too  wide  for  him  to  cross ; 
gold  bands  gleamed  upon  her  arms,  bare  to  the  shoulder ; 
he  could  not  reach  her ;  she  was  with  another — it  was 
torturing;  she  and  that  other  disappeared  into  the  cov- 
ering shadows.  ...  In  the  latter,  however,  there  was  no 
unworthy  thought,  no  faintest  desire  of  the  blood;  he 
saw  her  high  among  the  little  stars,  gazing  with  tender, 
pitying  eyes  upon  him,  calling  softly,  praying  for  him, 
loving  him,  yet  remote  in  some  spiritual  isolation  where 
she  must  wait  until  he  soared  to  join  her. 

Both  physically  and  spiritually,  that  is,  he  idealized 
her — saw  her  divinely  naked.  She  did  not  move.  She 
hung  there  like  a  star,  waiting  for  him,  while  he  was 
carried  past  her,  swept  along  helplessly  by  a  tide,  a  flood, 
a  wave,  though  a  wave  that  was  somehow  rising  up  to 
where  she  dwelt  above  him.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  marvelous  experience.  In  the  physical  moods 
he  felt  the  fires  of  jealousy  burn  his  flesh  away  to  the 
bare  nerves — resentment,  rage,  a  bitterness  that  could 


The  Wave  323 

kill;  in  the  alternate  state  he  felt  the  uplifting  joy  and 
comfort  of  ultimate  sacrifice,  sweet  as  heaven,  the  bliss 
of  complete  renunciation — for  her  happiness.  If  she 
loved  another  who  could  give  her  greater  joy,  he  had  no 
right  to  interfere. 

It  was  this  last  that  gradually  increased  in  strength,  the 
first  that  slowly,  surely  died.  Unsatisfied  yearnings  hunt- 
ed his  soul  across  the  empty  desert  that  now  seemed  life. 
The  self  he  had  been  so  pleased  with,  had  admired  so 
proudly  with  calm  complacence,  thinking  it  indispensable 
— this  was  tortured,  stabbed  and  mercilessly  starved  to 
death  by  slow  degrees,  while  something  else  appeared 
shyly,  gently,  as  yet  unaware  of  itself,  but  already  clearer 
and  stronger.  In  the  depths  of  his  being,  below  an  im- 
mense horizon,  shone  joy,  luring  him  onward  and  bright- 
ening as  it  did  so. 

Love,  he  realized,  was  independent  of  the  will — no 
one  can  will  to  love:  she  was  not  anywhere  to  blame,  a 
stronger  claim  had  come  into  life  and  changed  her.  She 
could  not  live  untruth,  pretending  otherwise.  He,  rather, 
was  to  blame  if  he  sought  to  hold  her  to  a  smaller  love 
she  had  outgrown.  She  had  the  inalienable  right  to  obey 
the  bigger  claim,  if  such  it  proved  to  be.  Personal  free- 
dom was  the  basis  of  their  contract.  It  would  have  been 
easier  for  him  if  she  could  have  told  him  frankly,  shared 
it  with  him;  but,  since  that  seemed  beyond  her,  then  it 
was  for  him  to  slip  away.  He  must  subtract  himself  from 
an  inharmonious  three,  leaving  a  perfect  two.  He  must 
make  it  easier  for  her. 

The  days  of  golden  sunshine  passed  along  their  ap- 
pointed way  as  before,  leaving  him  still  without  a  final 
decision.  Outwardly  the  little  party  a  trois  seemed  har- 
monious, a  coherent  unit,  while  inwardly  the  accumulation 
of  suppressed  emotion  crept  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  final 
breaking  point.  They  lived  upon  a  crater,  playing  their 
comedy  within  sight  and  hearing  of  destruction:  even 


324  The  Wave 

Mrs.  Haughstone,  ever  waiting  in  the  wings  for  her  cue, 
came  on  effectively  and  filled  her  role,  insignificant  yet 
necessary.  Its  meanness  was  its  truth. 

"Mr.  Winslowe  excites  my  cousin  too  much ;  I'm  sure 
it  isn't  good  for  her — in  England,  yes,  but  not  out  here  in 
this  strong,  dangerous  climate." 

Tom  understood,  but  invariably  opposed  her: 

"If  it  makes  her  happy  for  a  little  while,  I  see  no  harm 
in  it;  life  has  not  been  too  kind  to  her,  remember." 

Sometimes,  however,  the  hint  was  barbed  as  well: 
"Your  cousin  is  a  delightful  being,  but  he  can  talk  non- 
sense when  he  wants  to.  He's  actually  been  trying  to 
persuade  me  that  you're  jealous  of  him.  He  said  you 
were  only  waiting  a  suitable  moment  to  catch  him  alone 
in  the  Desert  and  shoot  him!" 

Tom  countered  her  with  an  assumption  of  porten- 
tous gravity :  "Sound  travels  too  easily  in  this  still  air," 
he  reminded  her;  "the  Nile  would  be  the  simplest  way." 
After  which,  confused  by  ridicule,  she  renounced  the  hint 
direct,  indulging  instead  in  facial  expression,  glances,  and 
innuendo  conveyed  by  gesture. 

That  there  was  some  truth,  however,  behind  this  be- 
trayal of  her  hostess  and  her  fellow-guest,  Tom  felt  cer- 
tain; it  lied  more  by  exaggeration  than  by  sheer  inven- 
tion :  he  listened  while  he  hated  it ;  ashamed  of  himself, 
he  yet  invited  the  ever-ready  warnings,  though  he  invari- 
ably defended  the  object  of  them — and  himself. 

Alternating  thus,  he  knew  no  minute  of  happiness;  a 
single  day,  a  single  hour  contained  both  moods,  trust 
ousted  suspicion,  and  suspicion  turned  out  trust.  Let- 
tice  led  him  on,  then  abruptly  turned  to  ice.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  was  first  and  Tony  nowhere,  the  same  afternoon 
this  was  reversed  precisely — yet  the  balance  growing 
steadily  in  his  cousin's  favor,  the  evidence  accumulating 
against  himself.  It  was  not  purposely  contrived,  it  was 
in  automatic  obedience  to  deeper  impulses  than  she  knew. 
Tom  never  lost  sight  of  this  amazing  duality  in  her,  the 


The  Wave  325 

struggle  of  one  self  against  another  older  self  to  which 
cruelty  was  no  stranger — or,  as  he  put  it,  the  newly 
awakened  Woman  against  the  Mother  in  her. 

He  could  not  fail  to  note  the  different  effects  he  and 
his  cousin  produced  in  her — the  ghastly  difference.  With 
himself  she  was  captious,  easily  exasperated;  her  rela- 
tions with  Tony,  above  all,  a  sensitive  spot  on  which  she 
could  bear  no  slightest  pressure  without  annoyance; 
while  behind  this  attitude,  hid  always  the  faithful  moth- 
erly care  that  could  not  see  him  in  distress.  That  touch 
of  comedy  lay  in  it  dreadfully: — wet  feet,  cold,  hungry, 
tired,  and  she  flew  to  his  consoling!  Towards  Tony  this 
side  of  her  remained  unresponsive ;  he  might  drink  unfil- 
tered  water  for  all  she  cared,  tire  himself  to  death,  or  sit 
in  a  draught  for  hours.  It  could  have  been  comic  almost 
but  for  its  significance :  that  from  Tony  she  received,  in- 
stead of  gave.  The  woman  in  her  asked,  claimed  even — 
of  the  man  in  him.  The  pain  for  Tom  lay  there. 

His  cousin  amused,  stimulated  her  beyond  anything 
Tom  could  offer;  she  sought  protection  from  him,  leant 
upon  him.  In  his  presence  she  blossomed  out,  her  eyes 
shone  the  moment  he  arrived,  her  voice  altered,  her  spir- 
its became  exuberant.  The  wholesome  physical  was 
awakened  by  him.  He  could  not  hope  to  equal  Tony's 
address,  his  fascination.  He  never  forgot  that  she  once 
danced  for  happiness.  .  .  .  Helplessness  grew  upon  him 
— he  had  no  right  to  feel  angry  even,  he  could  not  justly 
blame  herself  or  his  cousin.  The  woman  in  her  was  open 
to  capture  by  another ;  so  far  it  had  never  belonged  to 
him.  In  vain  he  argued  that  the  mother  was  the  larger 
part;  it  was  the  woman  that  he  wanted  with  it.  Hav- 
ing separated  the  two  aspects  of  her  in  this  way,  the  di- 
vision, once  made,  remained. 

And  every  day  that  passed  this  difference  in  her  to- 
wards himself  and  Tony  grew  more  mercilessly  marked. 
The  woman  in  her  responded  to  another  touch  than  his. 
Though  neither  lust  nor  passion,  he  knew,  dwelt  in  her 


326  The  Wave 

pure  being  anywhere,  there  were  yet  a  thousand  and  deli- 
cate unconscious  ways  by  which  a  woman  betrayed  her 
attraction  to  a  being  of  the  opposite  sex ;  they  could  not 
be  challenged,  but  equally  they  could  not  be  misinter- 
preted. Like  the  color  and  perfume  of  a  rose,  they  em- 
anated from  her  inmost  being.  ...  In  this  sense,  she 
was  sexually  indifferent  to  Tom,  and  while  passion  con- 
sumed his  soul,  he  felt  her,  dearly  mothering,  yet  cold  as 
ice.  The  soft  winds  of  Egypt  bent  the  full-blossomed 
rose  into  another's  hand,  towards  another's  lips.  .  .  . 
Tony  had  entered  the  garden  of  her  secret  life. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AND  so  the  fires  of  jealousy  burned  him.  He  strug- 
gled hard,  smothering  all  outward  expression  of  his 
pain,  with  the  sole  result  that  the  suppression  increased 
the  fury  of  the  heat  within.  For  every  day  the  tiniest 
details  fed  its  fierceness.  It  was  inextinguishable.  He 
lost  his  appetite,  his  sleep,  he  lost  all  sense  of  what  is 
called  proportion.  There  was  no  rest  in  him,  day  and 
night  he  lived  in  the  consuming  flame. 

His  cousin's  irresponsibility  now  assumed  a  sinister 
form  that  shocked  him.  He  recognized  the  libertine  in 
his  careless  play  with  members  of  the  other  sex  who  had 
pleased  him  for  moments,  then  been  tossed  aside.  He 
became  aware  of  grossness  in  his  eyes  and  lips  and  bear- 
ing. He  understood,  above  all,  his — hands. 

Against  the  fiery  screen  of  his  emotions  jealousy  threw 
violent  pictures  which  he  mistook  for  thought  .  .  .,  and 
there  burst  through  this  screen,  then,  scattering  all  lesser 
feelings,  the  flame  of  a  vindictive  anger  that  he  believed 
was  the  protective  righteous  anger  of  an  outraged  man. 
"If  Tony  did  her  wrong,"  he  told  himself,  "I  would  kill 
him." 

Always,  at  this  extravagant  moment,  however,  he 
reached  a  climax,  then  calmed  down  again.  A  sense  of 
humor  rose  incongruously  to  check  loss  of  self-restraint. 
The  memory  of  her  daily  tenderness  swept  over  him; 
and  shame  sent  a  blush  into  his  cheeks.  He  felt  morti- 
fied, ungenerous,  a  foolish  figure  even.  While  the  reac- 
tion lasted  he  forgave,  felt  her  above  reproach,  cursed 
his  wretched  thoughts  that  had  tried  to  soil  her,  and  lost 
the  violent  vindictiveness  that  had  betrayed  him.  His  af- 
fection for  his  cousin,  always  real,  and  the  sympathy  be- 

327 


328  The  Wave 

tween  them,  always  genuine,  returned  to  complete  his 
own  discomfiture.  His  mood  swayed  back  to  the  first, 
happy  days  when  the  three  of  them  had  laughed  and 
played  together. 

And  to  punish  himself  while  this  reaction  lasted,  he 
would  seek  her  out  and  see  that  she  inflicted  the  punish- 
ment itself.  He  would  hear  from  her  own  lips  how 
fond  she  was  of  Tony,  fighting  to  convince  himself,  while 
he  listened,  that  she  was  above  suspicion,  and  that  his 
pain  was  due  solely  to  unworthy  jealousy.  He  would 
be  specially  nice  to  Tony,  making  things  easier  for  him, 
even  urging  him,  as  it  were,  into  her  very  arms. 

These  moments  of  generous  reaction,  however,  seemed 
to  puzzle  her.  The  exalted  state  of  emotion  was  con- 
fined, perhaps,  to  himself.  At  any  rate,  he  produced  re- 
sults the  very  reverse  of  what  he  intended;  Tony  be- 
came more  cautious,  Lettice  looked  at  himself  with  half- 
questioning  eyes.  .  .  .  There  was  falseness  in  his  atti- 
tude, something  unnatural.  It  was  not  the  part  he  was 
cast  for  in  the  Play.  He  could  not  keep  it  up.  He  fell 
back  once  more  to  watching,  listening,  playing  his  proper 
role  of  a  slave  who  was  forced  to  observe  the  happiness 
of  others  set  somehow  over  him,  while  suffering  in  si- 
lence. The  inner  fires  were  fed  anew  thereby.  He  knew 
himself  flung  back,  bruised  and  bleeding,  upon  his  orig- 
inal fear  and  jealousy,  convinced  more  than  ever  before 
that  this  cruelty  and  torture  had  to  be,  and  that  his  pain 
was  justified.  To  resist  was  only  to  delay  the  perfect 
dawn. 

The  sum  of  loss  I  have  not  reckoned  yet, 

I  cannot  tell. 
For  ever  it  was  morning  when  we  met, 

Night  when  we  bade  farewell. 

He  changed  the  pronouns  in  the  last  two  lines,  for  al- 
ways it  was  morning  when  they  met,  night  when  they 
bade  farewell. 


The  Wave  329 

Mrs.  Haughstone,  meanwhile,  neglected  no  opportunity 
of  dotting  the  vowel  for  his  benefit;  she  crossed  each  t 
that  the  writing  of  the  stars  dropped  fluttering  across 
her  path.  "Mr.  Winslowe  has  emotions,"  she  mentioned 
once,  "but  he  has  no  heart.  If  he  ever  marries  and  settles 
down,  his  wife  will  find  it  out." 

"My  cousin  is  not  the  kind  to  marry/'  Tom  replied. 
"He's  too  changeable,  and  he  knows  it." 

"He's  young,"  she  said,  "he  hasn't  found  the  right 
woman  yet.  He  will  improve — a  woman  older  than  him- 
self with  the  mother  strong  in  her  might  hold  him.  He 
needs  the  mother  too.  Most  men  do,  I  think ;  they're  all 
children  really." 

Tom  laughed.  "Tony  as  father  of  a  family — I  can't 
imagine  it." 

"Once  he  had  children  of  his  own,"  she  suggested,  "he 
would  steady  wonderfully.  Those  men  often  make  the 
best  husbands — don't  you  think?" 

"Perhaps,"  Tom  replied  briefly.  "Provided  there's 
real  heart  beneath." 

"In  the  woman,  yes,"  returned  the  other  quietly.  "Too 
much  heart  in  the  man  can  so  easily  cloy.  A  real  man  is 
always  half  a  savage;  that's  why  the  woman  likes  him. 
It's  the  woman  who  guards  the  family." 

Tom,  knowing  that  her  words  veiled  other  meanings, 
pretended  not  to  notice.  He  no  longer  rose  to  the  bait 
she  offered.  He  detected  the  nonsense,  the  insincerity  as 
well,  but  he  could  not  argue  successfully,  and  generaliza- 
tions were  equally  beyond  him.  Too  polite  to  strike  back, 
he  always  waited  till  she  had  talked  herself  out;  besides 
he  often  acquired  information  thus,  information  he  both 
longed  for  yet  disliked  intensely.  Such  information 
rarely  failed :  it  was,  indeed,  the  desire  to  impart  it  with 
an  air  of  naturalness  that  caused  the  conversation  almost 
invariably.  It  appeared  now.  It  was  pregnant  informa- 
tion, too.  She  conveyed  it  in  a  lowered  tone :  there  was 
news  from  Warsaw.  The  end,  it  seemed,  was  expected 


330  The  Wave 

by  the  doctors ;  a  few  months  at  most.  Lettice  had  been 
warned,  however,  that  her  appearance  could  do  no  good ; 
the  sufferer  mistook  her  for  a  relative  who  came  to  per- 
secute him.  Her  presence  would  only  hasten  the  end. 
She  had  cabled,  none  the  less,  to  say  that  she  would 
come.  This  was  a  week  ago;  the  answer  was  expected 
in  a  day  or  two. 

And  Tom  had  not  been  informed  of  this. 

"Mr.  Winslowe  thinks  she  ought  to  go  at  once.  I'm 
sure  his  advice  is  wise.  Even  if  her  presence  can  do  no 
good,  it  might  be  an  unceasing  regret  if  she  was  not 
there.  .  .  ." 

"Your  cousin  alone  can  judge,"  he  interrupted  coldly. 
"I'd  rather  not  discuss  it,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  added, 
noticing  her  eagerness  to  continue  the  conversation. 

"Oh,  certainly,  Mr.  Kelverdon — just  as  you  feel.  But 
in  case  she  asks  your  advice  as  well — I  only  thought 
you'd  like  to  know — to  be  prepared,  I  mean." 

Only  long  afterwards  did  it  occur  to  him  that  Tony's 
informant  was  possibly  this  jealous  parasite  herself,  who 
now  deliberately  put  the  matter  in  another  light,  hoping 
to  sow  discord  to  her  own  eventual  benefit.  All  he  real- 
ized at  the  moment  was  the  intolerable  pain  that  Lettice 
should  tell  him  nothing.  She  looked  to  Tony  for  help, 
advice,  possibly  for  consolation  too. 

There  were  moments  of  another  kind,  however,  when 
it  seemed  quite  easy  to  talk  plainly.  His  position  was 
absurd,  undignified,  unmanly.  It  was  for  him  to  state 
his  case  and  abide  by  the  result.  Hearts  rarely  break  in 
two,  for  all  that  poets  and  women  might  protest. 

These  moments,  however,  he  did  not  use.  It  was  not 
that  he  shrank  from  hearing  his  sentence  plainly  spoken, 
nor  that  he  decided  he  must  not  prevent  something  that 
had  to  be.  The  reason  lay  deeper  still: — it  was  impos- 
sible. In  her  presence  he  became  tongue-tied,  helpless. 
His  own  stupidity  overwhelmed  him.  Silence  took  him. 
He  felt  at  a  hopeless  disadvantage,  ashamed  even.  No 


The  Wave  331 

words  of  his  could  reach  her  through  the  distance,  across 
the  barrier,  that  lay  between  them  now.  He  made  no 
single  attempt.  His  aching  heart,  filled  with  an  immeas- 
urable love,  remained  without  the  relief  of  utterance. 
He  had  lost  her.  But  he  loved  now  something  in  her 
place  beyond  the  possibility  of  loss — an  indestructible 
ideal. 

Words,  therefore,  were  not  only  impossible,  they  were 
vain.  And  when  the  final  moment  came  they  were  still 
more  useless.  He  could  go,  but  he  could  not  tell  her  he 
was  going.  Before  that  moment  came,  however,  another 
searching  experience  was  his:  he  saw  Tony  jealous — 
jealous  of  himself !  He  actually  came  to  feel  sympathy 
with  his  cousin  who  was  his  rival!  It  was  his  faithful 
love  that  made  that  possible  too. 

He  realized  this  suddenly  one  day  at  Assouan. 

He  had  been  thinking  about  the  long  conversations 
Tony  and  Lettice  enjoyed  together,  wondering  what  they 
found  to  discuss  at  such  interminable  length.  From  that 
his  mind  slipped  easily  into  another  question — how  she 
could  be  so  insensible  to  the  pain  she  caused  him? — 
when,  all  in  a  flash,  he  realized  the  distance  she  had 
traveled  from  him  on  the  road  of  love  towards  Tony. 
The  moment  of  perspective  made  it  abruptly  clear.  She 
now  talked  with  Tony  as  once,  at  Montreux  and  else- 
where, she  had  talked  with  himself.  He  saw  his  former 
place  completely  occupied.  As  an  accomplished  fact  he 
saw  it. 

The  belief  that  Tony's  influence  would  weaken  de- 
serted him  from  that  instant.  It  had  been  but  a  false 
hope  created  by  desire  and  yearning. 

There  was  a  crash.  He  reached  the  bottom  of  despair. 
That  same  evening,  on  returning  to  his  hotel  from  the 
works,  he  found  a  telegram.  It  had  been  arranged  that 
Lettice,  Tony,  Miss  de  Lome  and  her  brother  should  join 
him  in  Assouan.  The  telegram  stated  briefly  that  it  was 
not  possible  after  all: — she  sent  an  excuse. 


332  The  Wave 

The  sleepless  night  was  no  new  thing  to  him,  but  the 
acuteness  of  new  suffering  was  a  revelation.  Jealousy 
unmasked  her  amazing  powers  of  poisonous  and  devas- 
tating energy.  .  .  .  He  visualized  in  detail.  He  saw  Let- 
tice  and  his  cousin  together  in  the  very  situations  he  had 
hitherto  reserved  imaginatively  for  himself,  both  sweets 
hoped  for  and  delights  experienced,  but  raised  now  a 
hundredfold  in  actuality.  Like  pictures  of  flame  they 
rose  before  his  inner  eye ;  they  seared  and  scorched  him ; 
his  blood  turned  acid;  the  dregs  of  agony  were  his  to 
drink.  The  happiness  he  had  planned  for  himself,  down 
to  the  smallest  minutiae  of  each  precious  incident,  he  now 
saw  transferred  in  this  appalling  way — to  another.  Not 
deliberately  summoned,  not  morbidly  evoked — the  pic- 
tures rose  of  their  own  accord  against  the  background  of 
his  mind,  yet  so  instinct  with  actuality,  that  it  seemed  he 
had  surely  lived  them,  too,  himself  with  her,  somewhere, 
somehow  .  .  .  before.  There  was  that  same  haunting 
touch  of  familiarity  about  them. 

In  the  long  hours  of  this  particular  night  he  reached, 
perhaps,  the  acme  of  his  pain;  imagination,  whipped  by 
jealousy,  stoked  the  furnace  to  a  heat  he  had  not  known 
as  yet.  He  had  been  clinging  to  a  visionary  hope.  "I've 
lost  her  .  .  .  lost  her  .  .  .  lost  her/'  he  repeated  to  him- 
self, as  though  with  each  repetition  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase  grew  clearer.  Numbness  followed  upon  misery; 
there  were  long  intervals  when  he  felt  nothing  at  all,  pe- 
riods when  he  thought  he  hated  her,  when  pride  and 
anger  whispered  he  could  do  without  her.  ...  A  state 
of  negative  insensibility  followed.  .  .  .  On  the  heels  of 
it  came  a  red  and  violent  vindictiveness ;  next — resigna- 
tion, complete  acceptance,  almost  peace.  Then  acute  sen- 
sitiveness returned  again — he  felt  the  whole  series  of 
emotions  over  and  over  without  one  omission.  This 
numbness  and  sensitiveness  alternated  with  a  kind  of 
rhythmic  succession.  .  .  .  He  reviewed  the  entire  epi- 
sode from  beginning  to  end,  recalled  every  word  she  had 


The  Wave  333 

uttered,  traced  the  gradual  influence  of  Tony  on  her, 
from  its  first  faint  origin  to  its  present  climax.  He  saw 
her  struggles  and  her  tears  .  .  .  the  mysterious  duality 
working  to  possess  her  soul.  It  was  all  plain  as  daylight. 
No  justification  for  any  further  hope  was  left  to  him. 
He  must  go.  ...  It  was  the  thunder,  surely,  of  the  fall- 
ing Wave. 

For  Tony,  he  realized  at  last,  had  not  merely  usurped 
his  own  place,  but  had  discovered  a  new  Lettice  to  her- 
self, and  setting  her  thus  in  a  new,  a  larger  world,  had 
taught  her  a  new  relationship.  He  had  achieved — per- 
haps innocently  enough  so  far  as  his  conscience  was  con- 
cerned ? — a  new  result,  and  a  bigger  one  than  Tom,  with 
his  lesser  powers,  could  possibly  have  effected. 

There  was  no  falseness,  no  duplicity  in  her.  "She  still 
loves  me  as  before,  the  mother  still  gives  me  what  she 
always  gave,"  Tom  put  it  to  himself,  "but  Tony  has 
plowed  deeper — reached  the  woman  in  her.  He  loves 
a  Lettice  I  have  never  realized.  It  is  this  new  Lettice 
that  loves  him  in  return.  .  .  .  What  right  have  I,  with 
my  smaller  claim,  to  stand  in  her  way  a  single  moment? 
...  I  must  slip  out." 

He  had  lost  the  dream  that  Tony  but  tended  a  blossom, 
the  fruit  of  which  would  come  sweetly  to  his  plucking 
afterwards.  The  intense  suffering  concealed  all  proph- 
ecy, as  the  jealousy  killed  all  hope.  He  spent  that  final 
night  of  awful  pain  on  his  balcony,  remembering  how 
weeks  before  in  Luxor  the  first  menacing  presentiment 
had  come  to  him.  He  stared  out  into  the  Egyptian  won- 
der of  outer  darkness.  The  stillness  held  a  final  men- 
ace as  of  death.  He  recalled  a  Polish  proverb.  .  .  .  "In 
the  still  marshes  there  are  devils."  The  world  spread 
dark  and  empty  like  his  life;  the  Theban  Hills  seemed 
to  have  crept  after  him,  here  to  Assouan;  the  stars,  in- 
credibly distant,  had  no  warmth  or  comfort  in  them ;  the 
river  roared  with  a  dull  and  lonely  sound;  he  heard  the 


334  The  Wave 

palm  trees  rattling  in  the  wind.     The  pain  in  him  was 
almost  physical.  .  .  . 

Dawn  found  him  in  the  same  position — yet  with  a 
change.  Perhaps  the  prolonged  agony  had  killed  the  ache 
of  ceaseless  personal  craving,  or  perhaps  the  fierceness 
of  the  fire  had  burned  it  out.  Tom  could  not  say;  nor 
did  he  ask  the  questions.  A  change  was  there,  and  that 
was  all  he  knew.  He  had  come  at  last  to  a  decision,  made 
a  final  choice.  He  had  somehow  fought  his  battle  out 
with  a  courage  he  did  not  know  was  courage.  Here  at 
Assouan,  he  turned  upon  the  Wave  and  faced  it.  He 
saw  her  happiness  only,  fixed  all  his  hope  and  energy  on 
that.  A  new  and  loftier  strength  woke  in  him.  There 
was  no  shuffling  now. 

He  would  give  her  up.  In  his  heart  she  would  al- 
ways remain  his  dream  and  his  ideal — but  outwardly  he 
would  no  longer  need  her.  He  would  do  without  her. 
He  forgave — if  there  was  anything  to  forgive — forgave 
them  both.  .  .  . 

Something  in  him  had  broken. 

He  could  not  explain  it,  though  he  felt  it :  Yet  it  was 
not  her  that  he  had  given  up — it  was  himself. 

The  first  effect  of  this,  however,  was  to  think  that  life 
lay  in  ruins  round  him,  that,  literally,  the  life  in  him  was 
smothered  by  the  breaking  wave.  .  .  . 

And  yet  he  did  not  break — he  did  not  drown. 

For,  as  though  to  show  that  his  decision  was  the  right, 
inevitable  one,  small  outward  details  came  to  his  assist- 
ance. Fate  evidently  approved.  For  Fate  just  then  fur- 
nished relief  by  providing  another  outlet  for  his  ener- 
gies :  the  Works  went  seriously  wrong :  Tom  could  think 
of  nothing  else  but  how  he  could  put  things  right  again. 
Reflection,  introspection,  brooding  over  mental  and  spir- 
itual pain  became  impossible. 

The  lieutenants  he  trusted  had  played  him  false;  sub- 


The  Wave  335 

contracts  of  an  outrageous  kind,  flavored  by  bribery, 
had  been  entered  into;  the  cost  of  certain  necessaries 
had  been  raised  absurdly,  with  the  result  that  the  profits 
of  the  entire  undertaking  to  the  Firm  must  be  lowered 
correspondingly.  And  the  blame,  the  responsibility  was 
his  own ;  he  had  unwisely  delegated  his  powers  to  under- 
lings whose  ambitions  for  money  exceeded  their  sense 
of  honor.  But  Tom's  honor  was  involved  as  well.  He 
had  delegated  his  powers  in  writing.  He  now  had  to 
pay  the  price  of  his  prolonged  neglect  of  duty. 

The  position  was  irremediable;  Tom's  neglect  and 
inefficiency  were  established  beyond  question.  He  had 
failed  in  a  position  of  high  trust.  And  to  make  the  situa- 
tion still  less  pleasant,  Sir  William,  the  Chairman  of  the 
Company — Tom's  chief,  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his 
partnership  and  post  of  trust — telegraphed  that  he  was 
on  the  way  at  last  from  Salonika.  One  way  alone  of- 
fered— to  break  the  disastrous  contracts  by  payments 
made  down  without  delay.  Tom  made  these  payments 
out  of  his  own  pocket;  they  were  large;  his  private  re- 
sources disappeared  in  a  single  day.  .  .  .  But,  even  so, 
the  delay  and  bungling  at  the  Works  were  not  to  be  con- 
cealed. Sir  William,  shrewd,  experienced  man  of  busi- 
ness, stern  of  heart  as  well  as  hard  of  head,  could  not 
be  deceived.  Within  half  an  hour  of  his  arrival,  Tom 
Kelverdon's  glaring  incompetency — worse,  his  unrelia- 
bility, to  use  no  harsher  word — were  all  laid  bare.  His 
position  in  the  Firm,  even  his  partnership,  perhaps,  be- 
came untenable.  Resignation  stared  him  in  the  face. 

He  saw  his  life  go  down  in  ruins  before  his  very  eyes ; 
the  roof  had  fallen  long  ago.  The  pillars  now  collapsed. 
The  Wave,  indeed,  had  turned  him  upside  down;  its 
smothering  crash  left  no  corner  of  his  being  above  water; 
heart,  mind,  and  character  were  flung  in  a  broken  tan- 
gle against  the  cruel  bottom  as  it  fell  to  earth. 

But,  at  any  rate,  the  new  outlet  for  his  immediate 
energies  was  offered.  He  seized  it  vigorously.  He  gave 


336  The  Wave 

up  his  room  at  Luxor,  and  sent  a  man  down  to  bring  his 
luggage  up.  He  did  not  write  to  Lettice.  He  faced  the 
practical  situation  with  a  courage  and  thoroughness 
which,  though  too  late,  were  admirable.  Moreover,  he 
found  a  curious  relief  in  the  new  disaster,  a  certain  com- 
fort even.  There  was  compensation  in  it  somewhere. 
Everything  was  going  to  smash — the  sooner,  then,  the 
better !  This  recklessness  was  in  him.  He  had  lost  Let- 
tice, so  what  else  mattered  ?  His  attitude  was  somewhat 
devil-may-care,  his  grip  on  life  itself  seemed  slipping. 

This  mood  could  not  last,  however,  with  a  character 
like  his.  It  seized  him,  but  retained  no  hold.  It  was 
the  last  cry  of  despair  when  he  touched  bottom,  the  mo- 
ment when  weaker  temperaments  think  of  the  emergency 
exit,  realize  their  final  worthlessness — proving  themselves 
worthless,  indeed,  thereby. 

Tom  met  the  blow 'in  other  fashion.  He  saw  himself 
unworthy,  but  by  no  means  worthless.  Suicide,  whether 
of  death  or  of  final  collapse,  did  not  enter  his  mind  even. 
He  faced  the  Wave,  he  did  not  shuffle  now.  He  sent  a 
telegram  to  Lettice  to  say  he  was  detained;  he  wrote  to 
Tony  that  he  had  given  up  his  room  in  the  Luxor  hotel, 
an  affectionate,  generous  note,  telling  him  to  take  good 
care  of  Lettice.  It  was  only  right  and  fair  that  Tony 
should  think  the  path  for  himself  was  clear.  Since  he 
had  decided  to  "slip  out"  this  attitude  towards  his  cousin 
was  necessarily  involved.  It  must  not  appear  that  he 
had  retired,  beaten  and  unhappy.  He  must  do  no  single 
thing  that  might  offer  resistance  to  the  inevitable  fate, 
least  of  all  leave  Tony  with  the  sense  of  having  injured 
him.  True  sacrifice  forbade ;  renunciation,  if  real,  was 
also  silent — the  smiling  face,  the  cheerful,  natural 
manner ! 

Tom,  therefore,  fixed  his  heart  more  firmly  than  ever 
upon  one  single  point:  her  happiness.  He  fought  to 
think  of  that  alone.  If  he  knew  her  happy,  he  could  live. 
He  found  life  in  her  joy.  He  lived  in  that.  By  "slip- 


The  Wave  337 

ping  out,"  no  word  of  reproach,  complaint,  or  censure 
uttered,  he  would  actually  contribute  to  her  happiness. 
Thus,  vicariously,  he  almost  helped  to  cause  it.  In  this 
faint,  self-excluding  bliss,  he  could  live — even  live  on — 
until  the  end.  That  was  true  forgiveness. 

Meanwhile,  not  easily  nor  immediately,  did  he  defy 
the  anguish  that,  day  and  night,  kept  gnawing  at  his 
heart.  His  one  desire  was  to  hide  it,  and — if  the  huge 
achievement  might  lie  within  his  powers — to  change  it 
sweetly  into  a  source  of  strength  that  should  redeem  him. 
The  "sum  of  loss,"  indeed,  he  had  not  "reckoned  yet/' 
but  he  was  beginning  to  add  the  figures  up.  Full  meas- 
urement lay  in  the  long,  long  awful  years  ahead.  He  had 
this  strange  comfort,  however — that  he*  now  loved  some- 
thing he  could  never  lose  because  it  could  not  change. 
He  loved  an  ideal.  In  that  sense,  he  and  Lettice  were  in 
the  "sea"  together.  His  belief  and  trust  in  her  were  not 
lost,  but  heightened.  And  a  hint  of  mothering  content- 
ment stole  sweetly  over  him  behind  this  shadowy  yet  gen- 
uine consolation. 

The  childhood  nightmare  was  both  presentiment"  and 
memory.  The  crest  of  the  falling  Wave  was  reflected  in 
its  base. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

TOM  took  his  passage  home ;  he  also  told  Sir  William 
that  his  resignation,  whether  the  Board  accepted  it 
or  not,  was  final.  His  reputation,  so  far  as  the  firm  was 
concerned,  he  knew  was  lost.  His  own  self-respect  had 
dwindled  dangerously  too.  He  had  the  feeling  that 
he  wanted  to  begin  all  over  again  from  the  very  bottom. 
It  seemed  the  only  way.  The  prospect,  at  his  age,  was 
daunting.  He  faced  it. 

At  the  very  moment  in  life  when  he  had  fancied  him- 
self most  secure,  most  satisfied  mentally,  spiritually,  ma- 
terially— the  entire  structure  on  which  self-confidence 
rested  had  given  way.  Even  the  means  of  material  sup- 
port had  vanished  too.  The  crash  was  absolute.  This 
brief  Egyptian  winter  had,  indeed,  proved  the  winter  of 
his  loss.  The  Wave  had  fallen  at  last. 

During  the  interval  at  Assouan — ten  days  that  seemed 
a  month! — he  heard  occasionally  from  Lettice.  "To-day 
I  miss  you,"  one  letter  opened.  Another  said:  "We 
wonder  when  you  will  return.  We  all  miss  you  very 
much :  it's  not  the  same  here  without  you,  Tom."  And 
all  were  signed  "Your  ever  loving  Lettice."  But  if 
hope  for  some  strange  reason  refused  to  die  completely, 
he  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  deceived.  His  task — no 
easy  one — was  to  transmute  emotion  into  the  higher,  self- 
less, ideal  love  that  was  now — oh,  he  knew  it  well  enough 
— his  only  hope  and  safety.  In  the  desolate  emptiness  of 
desert  that  yawned  ahead,  he  saw  this  single  tree  that 
blossomed,  and  offered  shade.  Beauty  and  comfort  both 
were  there.  He  believed  in  her  truth  and  somehow  in 
her  faithfulness  as  well. 

338 


The  Wave  339 

Tom  sent  his  heavy  luggage  to  Port  Said,  and  took 
the  train  to  Luxor.  He  had  decided  to  keep  his  sailing 
secret.  He  could  mention  honestly  that  he  was  going  to 
Cairo.  He  would  write  a  line  from  there  or,  better  still, 
from  the  steamer  itself. 

And  the  instinct  that  led  to  this  decision  was  sound 
and  wise.  The  act  was  not  as  boyish  as  it  seemed.  For 
he  feared  a  reaction  on  her  part  that  yet  could  be  mo- 
mentary only.  His  leaving  so  suddenly  would  be  a  shock, 
it  might  summon  the  earlier  Lettice  to  the  surface,  there 
might  be  a  painful  scene  for  both  of  them.  She  would 
realize,  to  some  extent  at  any  rate,  the  immediate  sense 
of  loss;  for  she  would  surely  divine  that  he  was  going, 
not  to  England  merely,  but  out  of  her  life.  And  she 
would  suffer;  she  might  even  try  to  keep  him — the  only 
result  being  a  revival  of  pain  already  almost  conquered, 
and  of  distress  for  her. 

For  such  reaction,  he  divined,  could  not  be  permanent. 
The  Play  was  over ;  it  must  not,  could  not  be  prolonged. 
He  must  go  out.  There  must  be  no  lingering  when  the 
curtain  fell.  A  curtain  that  halts  in  its  descent  upon  the 
actors  endangers  the  effect  of  the  entire  Play. 

He  wired  to  Cairo  for  a  room.  He  wired  to  her  too : 
"Arrive  to-morrow,  en  route  Cairo.  Leave  same  night." 
He  braced  himself.  The  strain  would  be  cruelly  exacting, 
but  the  worst  had  been  lived  out  already;  the  jealousy 
was  dead ;  the  new  love  was  established  beyond  all  reach 
of  change.  These  last  few  hours  should  be  natural,  care- 
less, gay,  no  hint  betraying  him,  flying  no  signals  of  dis- 
tress. He  could  just  hold  out.  The  strength  was  in  him. 
And  there  was  time  before  he  caught  the  evening  train 
for  a  reply  to  come :  "All  delighted ;  expect  you  break- 
fast. Arranging  picnic  expedition. — LETTICE." 

And  that  one  word  "all"  helped  him  unexpectedly  to 
greater  steadiness.  It  eliminated  the  personal  touch  even 
in  a  telegram. 


340  The  Wave 

In  the  train  he  slept  but  little ;  the  heat  was  suffocating , 
there  was  a  Khamsin  blowing  and  the  fine  sand  crept 
in  everywhere.  At  Luxor,  however,  the  wind  remained 
so  high  up  that  the  lower  regions  of  the  sky  were  calm 
and  still.  The  sand  hung  in  fog-like  clouds  shrouding 
the  sun,  dimming  the  usual  brilliance.  But  the  heat  was 
intense,  and  the  occasional  stray  puffs  of  air  that  touched 
the  creeping  Nile  or  passed  along  the  sweltering  street, 
seemed  to  issue  from  the  mouth  of  some  vast  furnace  in 
the  heavens.  They  dropped,  then  ceased  abruptly;  there 
was  no  relief  in  them.  The  natives  sat  listelessly  in 
their  doorways,  the  tourists  kept  their  rooms  or  idled 
complainingly  in  the  hotel  halls  and  corridors.  The  om- 
inous touch  was  everywhere.  He  felt  it  in  his  heart  as 
well — the  heart  he  thought  broken  beyond  repair. 

Tom  bathed  and  changed  his  clothes,  then  drove  down 
to  the  shady  garden  beside  the  river  as  of  old.  He  felt 
the  gritty  sand  between  his  teeth,  it  was  in  his  mouth  and 
eyes,  it  was  on  his  tongue.  .  .  .  He  met  Lettice  without 
a  tremor,  astonished  at  his  own  coolness  and  self-control ; 
he  watched  her  beauty  as  the  beauty  of  a  picture,  some- 
thing that  was  no  longer  his,  yet  watched  it  without  envy 
and,  in  an  odd  sense,  almost  without  pain.  He  loved  the 
fairness  of  it  for  itself,  for  her,  and  for  another  who 
was  not  himself.  Almost  he  loved  their  happiness  to 
come — for  her  sake.  Her  eyes,  too,  followed  him,  he 
fancied,  like  a  picture's  eyes.  She  looked  young  and 
fresh,  yet  something  mysterious  in  the  following  eyes. 
The  usual  excited  happiness  was  less  obvious,  he  thought, 
than  usual,  the  mercurial  gaiety  wholly  absent.  He  fan- 
cied a  cloud  upon  her  spirit  somewhere.  He  imagined 
tiny,  uncertain  signs  of  questioning  distress.  He  won- 
dered. .  .  .  This  torture  of  a  last  uncertainty  was  also 
his. 

Yet,  obviously,  she  was  glad  to  see  him;  her  welcome 
was  genuine ;  she  came  down  the  drive  to  meet  him,  both 
hands  extended.  Apparently,  too,  she  was  alone,  Mrs. 


The  Wave  341 

Haughstone  still  asleep,  and  Tony  not  yet  arrived.  It 
was  still  early  morning. 

"Well,  and  how  did  you  get  on  without  me — all  of 
you?"  he  asked,  adding  the  last  three  words  with  em- 
phasis. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming  back,  Tom;  I  had 
the  feeling  you  were  bored  here  at  Luxor  and  meant  to 
leave  us."  She  looked  him  up  and  down  with  a  curious 
look — of  admiration  almost,  an  admiration  he  believed  he 
had  now  learned  to  do  without.  "How  lean  and  brown 
and  well  you  look!"  she  exclaimed,  "but  thin,  Tom. 
You've  grown  thinner."  She  shook  her  finger  at  him. 
Her  voice  was  perilously  soft  and  kind,  a  sweet  tender- 
ness in  her  manner,  too.  "You've  been  over-working 
and  not  eating  enough.  You've  not  had  me  to  look  after 
you." 

He  flushed.  "I'm  awfully  fit,"  he  said,  smiling  a  little 
shyly.  "I  may  be  thinner.  That's  the  heat,  I  suppose. 
Assouan's  a  blazing  place — you  feel  you're  in  Africa — ." 
He  said  the  banal  thing  as  usual. 

"But  was  there  no  one  there  to  look  after  you?"  She 
gave  him  a  quick  glance.  "No  one  at  all?" 

Tom  noticed  the  repeated  question,  «wondering  a  little. 
But  there  was  no  play  in  him;  in  place  of  it  was  some- 
thing stern,  unyielding  as  iron,  though  not  tested  yet. 

"The  Chairman  of  my  Company,  nine  hundred  noisy 
tourists,  and  about  a  thousand  Arabs  at  the  Works,"  he 
told  her.  "There  was  hardly  a  soul  I  knew  besides." 

She  said  no  more ;  she  gave  a  scarcely  audible  sigh ;  she 
seemed  unsatisfied  somewhere.  To  his  surprise,  then, 
he  noticed  that  the  familiar  little  table  was  only  laid  for 
two. 

"Where's  Tony?"  he  asked.  "And,  by  the  by,  how  is 
he?" 

He  thought  she  hesitated  a  moment.  "Tony's  not  com- 
ing till  later,"  she  told  him.  "He  guessed  we  should 


342  The  Wave 

have  a  lot  to  talk  about  together,  so  he  stayed  away. 
Nice  of  him,  wasn't  it?" 

Behind  the  commonplace  sentences,  the  hidden  word- 
less Play  also  drew  on  towards  its  Curtain. 

"Well,  it  is  my  turn  rather  for  a  chat,  perhaps,"  he  re- 
turned presently  with  a  laugh,  taking  his  cup  of  steaming 
coffee  from  her  hand.  "I  can  see  him  later  in  the  day. 
You've  arranged  something,  I'm  sure.  Your  wire  spoke 
of  a  picnic,  but  perhaps  this  heat — this  beastly  Kham- 
sin  " 

"It's  passing,"  she  mentioned.  "They  say  it  blows  for 
three  days,  for  six  days,  or  for  nine,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  does  nothing  of  the  sort.  It's  going  to  clear.  I 
thought  we  might  take  our  tea  into  the  Desert." 

She  went  on  talking  rapidly,  almost  nervously,  it 
seemed  to  Tom.  Her  mind  was  upon  something  else. 
Thoughts  of  another  kind  lay  unexpressed  behind  her 
speech.  His  own  mind  was  busy  too — Tony,  Warsaw, 
the  long,  long  interval  he  had  been  away,  what  had  hap- 
pened during  his  absence,  and  so  forth?  Had  no  cable 
come?  What  would  she  feel  this  time  to-morrow  when 
she  knew  ? — these  and  a  hundred  others  seethed  below  his 
quiet  manner  and  careless  talk.  He  noticed  then  that  she 
was  exquisitely  dressed;  she  wore,  in  fact,  the  very 
things  he  most  admired — and  wore  them  purposely:  the 
orange-colored  jacket,  the  violet  veil,  the  hat  with  the 
little  roses  on  the  brim.  It  was  his  turn  to  look  her  up 
and  down. 

She  caught  his  eye.  Uncannily,  she  caught  his  thought 
as  well.  Tom  steeled  himself. 

"I  put  these  on  especially  for  you,  you  truant  boy," 
she  said  deliciously  across  the  table  at  him.  "I  hope 
you're  sensible  of  the  honor  done  you." 

"Rather,  Lettice!    I  should  think  I  am,  indeed!" 

"I  got  up  half  an  hour  earlier  on  purpose  too.  Think 
what  that  means  to  a  woman  like  me."  She  handed  him 
a  grape-fruit  she  had  opened  and  prepared  herself. 


The  Wave  343 

"My  favorite  hat,  and  my  favorite  fruit!  I  wish  I 
were  worthy  of  them!"  He  stammered  slightly  as  he 
said  the  stupid  thing:  the  blood  rushed  up  to  his  very 
forehead,  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  noticing  either  words 
or  blush.  The  strong  sunburn  hid  the  latter  doubtless. 
There  was  a  desperate  shyness  in  him  that  he  could  not 
manage  quite.  He  wished  to  heaven  the  talk  would  shift 
into  another  key.  He  could  not  keep  this  up  for  long; 
it  was  too  dangerous.  Her  attitude,  it  seemed,  had  gone 
back  to  that  of  weeks  ago;  there  was  more  than  the 
mother  in  it,  he  felt :  it  was  almost  the  earlier  Lettice — 
and  yet  not  quite.  Something  was  added,  but  something 
too  was  missing.  He  wondered  more  and  more  ...  he 
asked  himself  odd  questions.  ...  It  seemed  to  him  sud- 
denly that  her  mood  was  assumed,  not  wholly  natural. 
The  flash  came  to  him  that  disappointment  lay  behind 
it,  yet  that  the  disappointment  was  not  with — himself. 
Another  caused  it. 

"You're  wearing  a  new  tie,  Tom,"  her  voice  broke 
in  upon  his  moment's  reverie.  "That's  not  the  one  / 
gave  you." 

It  was  so  unexpected,  so  absurd.  It  startled  him. 
He  laughed  with  genuine  amusement,  explaining  that  he 
had  bought  it  in  Assouan  in  a  moment  of  extravagance 
— "the  nearest  shade  I  could  find  to  the  blue  you  gave  me. 
How  observant  you  are !"  Lettice  laughed  with  him.  "I 
always  notice  little  things  like  that,"  she  said.  "It's  what 
you  call  the  mother  in  me,  I  suppose."  She  examined  the 
tie  across  the  table,  while  they  smoked  their  cigarettes. 
He  looked  aside.  "I  hope  it  was  admired.  It  suits  you." 
She  fingered  it.  Her  hand  touched  his  chin. 

"Does  it?    It's  your  taste,  you  know." 

"But  was  it  admired?"  she  insisted  almost  sharply. 

"That's  really  more  than  I  can  say,  Lettice.  You  see 
I  didn't  ask  Sir  William  what  he  thought,  and  the  na- 
tives are  poor  judges  because  they  don't  wear  ties."  He 
was  about  to  say  more,  talking  the  first  nonsense  that 


344  The  Wave 

came  into  his  head,  when  she  did  a  thing  that  took  his 
breath  away,  and  made  him  tremble  where  he  sat.  Re- 
gardless of  lurking  Arab  servants,  careless  of  Mrs. 
Haughstone's  windows  not  far  behind  them,  she  rose  sud- 
denly, tripped  round  the  little  table,  kissed  him  on  his 
cheek — and  was  back  again  in  her  chair,  smoking  as  in- 
nocently as  before.  It  was  a  repetition  of  an  earlier  act, 
yet  with  a  difference  somewhere. 

The  world  seemed  unreal  just  then;  things  like  this 
did  not  happen  in  real  life,  at  least  not  quite  like  this; 
nor  did  two  persons  in  their  respective  positions  talk  ex- 
actly thus,  using  such  banal  language,  such  insignificant 
phrases  half  of  banter,  half  of  surface  foolishness.  The 
kiss  amazed  him — for  a  moment.  Tom  felt  in  a  dream. 
And  yet  this  very  sense  of  dream,  this  idle  exchange  of 
trivial  conversation  cloaked  something  that  was  a  cruel, 
an  indubitable  reality.  It  was  not  a  dream  shot  through 
with  reality,  it  was  a  reality  shot  through  with  dream. 
But  the  dream  itself,  though  old  as  the  desert,  dim  as 
those  grim  Theban  Hills  now  draped  with  flying  sand, 
was  also  true  and  actual. 

The  hidden  Play  had  broken  through,  merging  for  an 
instant  with  the  upper  surface  life.  He  was  almost  per- 
suaded that  this  last,  strange  action  had  not  happened, 
that  Lettice  had  never  really  left  her  chair.  So  still  and 
silent  she  sat  there  now.  She  had  not  stirred  from  her 
place.  It  was  the  burning  wind  that  touched  his  cheek,  a 
waft  of  heated  atmosphere,  lightly  moving,  that  left  the 
disquieting  trail  of  perfume  in  the  air.  The  glowing 
heavens,  luminous  athwart  the  clouds  of  fine,  suspended 
sand,  laid  this  ominous  hint  of  dream  upon  the  entire  day. 
.  .  .  The  recent  act  became  a  mere  picture  in  the  mind. 

Yet  some  little  cell  of  innermost  memory,  stirring  out 
of  sleep,  had  surely  given  up  its  dead.  .  .  .  For  a  second 
it  seemed  to  him  this  heavy,  darkened  air  was  in  the 
recesses  of  the  earth,  beneath  the  burden  of  massive 
cliffs  the  centuries  had  piled.  It  was  underground.  In 


The  Wave    .  345 

some  cavern  of  those  mournful  Theban  Hills,  some  one 
— had  kissed  him !  For  over  his  head  shone  painted  stars 
against  a  painted  blue,  and  in  his  nostrils  hung  a  faint 
sweetness  as  of  ambra.  .  .  . 

He  recovered  his  balance  quickly.  They  resumed  their 
curious  masquerade,  the  screen  of  idle  talk  between  sig- 
nificance and  emptiness,  like  sounds  of  reality  between 
dream  and  waking. 

And  the  rest  of  that  long  day  of  stifling  heat  was  sim- 
ilarly a  dream  shot  through  with  incongruous  touches 
of  reality,  yet  also  a  reality  shot  through  with  the  glamour 
of  some  incredible  ancient  dream.  Not  till  he  stood  later 
upon  the  steamer  deck,  the  sea-wind  in  his  face  and  the 
salt  spray  on  his  lips,  did  he  awake  fully  and  distinguish 
the  dream  from  the  reality — or  the  reality  from  the 
dream.  Nor  even  then  was  the  deep,  strange  confusion 
wholly  dissipated.  To  the  end  of  life,  indeed,  it  remained 
an  unsolved  mystery,  labeled  a  Premonition  Fulfilled, 
without  adequate  explanation.  .  .  . 

The  time  passed  listlessly  enough,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  similar  idle  talk,  careless,  it  seemed  to  Tom,  with 
the  ghastly  sense  of  the  final  minutes  slipping  remorse- 
lessly away,  so  swiftly,  so  poignantly  unused.  For  each 
moment  was  gigantic,  brimmed  full  with  the  distilled  es- 
sence, as  it  were,  of  intensest  value,  value  that  yet  was 
not  his  to  seize.  He  never  lost  the  point  of  view  that 
he  watched  a  picture  that  belonged  to  some  one  else.  His 
own  position  was  clear;  he  had  already  leaped  from  a 
height;  he  counted,  as  he  fell,  the  blades  of  grass,  the 
pebbles  far  below;  slipping  over  Niagara's  awful  edge, 
he  noted  the  bubbles  in  the  whirlpools  underneath.  They 
talked  of  the  weather  .  .  .  ! 

"It's  clearing,"  said  Lettice.  "There'll  be  sand  in  our 
tea  and  thin  bread  and  butter.  But  anything's  better  than 
sitting  and  stifling  here." 

Tom  readily  agreed.    "You  and  I  and  Tony,  then?" 


346  The  Wave 

"I  thought  so.     We  don't  want  too  many,  do  we?" 

"Not  for  our  la — not  for  a  day  like  this."  He  cor- 
rected himself  just  in  time.  "Tony  will  be  here  for 
lunch?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "He  said  so,  at  any  rate,  only  one  never 
quite  knows  with  Tony."  And  though  Tom  plainly 
heard,  he  made  no  comment.  He  was  puzzled. 

Most  of  the  morning  they  remained  alone  together. 
Tom  had  never  felt  so  close  to  her  before;  it  seemed  to 
him  their  spirits  touched ;  there  was  no  barrier  now. 
But  there  was  distance.  He  could  not  explain  the  para- 
dox. A  vague  sweet  feeling  was  in  him  that  the  distance 
was  not  of  height,  as  formerly.  He  had  risen  somehow ; 
he  felt  higher  than  before ;  he  saw  over  the  barrier  that 
had  been  there.  Pain  and  sacrifice,  perhaps,  had  lifted 
him,  raised  him  to  the  level  where  she  dwelt ;  and  in  that 
way  he  was  closer.  A  new  strength  was  in  him.  At 
the  same  time,  behind  her  outer  quietness,  and  her  calm, 
he  divined  struggle  still.  In  her  atmosphere  was  a  hint 
of  strain,  disharmony.  He  was  positive  of  this.  From 
time  to  time  he  caught  trouble  in  her  eyes.  Could  she, 
perhaps,  discern — foreknow — the  shadow  of  the  dropping 
Curtain?  He  wondered.  He  detected  something  in  her 
that  was  new. 

If  any  weakening  of  resolve  were  in  himself,  it  disap- 
peared long  before  Tony's  arrival  on  the  scene.  A  few 
private  words  from  Mrs.  Haughstone  later  banished  it 
effectually.  "Your  telegram,  Mr.  Kelverdon,  came  as  a 
great  surprise.  We  had  planned  a  three-day  trip  to  the 
Sphinx  and  Pyramids.  Mr.  Winslowe  had  written  to 
you;  he  hoped  to  persuade  you  to  join  us.  Again  you 
left  Assouan  before  the  letter  arrived.  It's  a  habit  with 
you!" 

"Apparently." 

The  poison  no  longer  fevered  him;  he  was  immune. 

"Mr.  Winslowe — I  had  better  warn  you  before  he 
comes — was  disappointed." 


The  Wave  347 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoilt  the  trip.  It  was  most  inconsiderate 
of  me.  But  you  can  make  it  later  when  I'm  gone — to 
Cairo,  can't  you?" 

Mrs.  Haughstone  watched  him  somewhat  keenly.  Did 
she  discover  anything,  he  wondered.  Was  she  aware  that 
he  was  no  longer  within  reach  of  her  little  shafts? 

"It's  all  for  the  best,  I  think,"  she  went  on  in  a  casual 
tone.  "Lettice  was  too  easily  persuaded — she  didn't 
really  want  to  go  without  you.  She  said  so.  And  Mr. 
Winslowe  soon  gets  over  his  sulks " 

Tom  interrupted  her,  turning  sharply  round.  "Oh," 
he  laughed,  "was  that  why  he  wouldn't  come  to  break- 
fast, then  ?"  And  whether  it  was  pain  or  pleasure  that  he 
felt  he  did  not  know.  The  moment's  anguish — he  verily 
believed  it — was  for  Lettice.  And  for  Tony?  Some- 
thing akin  to  sympathy  perhaps!  If  Tony  should  ever 
suffer  pain  like  his — even  temporarily  .  .  .  ! 

The  other  shrugged  her  angular  shoulders  a  little. 
'It's  all  passed  now,"  she  observed;  "he's  forgotten  it, 
I'm  sure.  You  needn't  notice  anything,  by  the  way,"  she 
added,  "if — if  he  seems  ungracious." 

"Not  for  worlds,"  replied  Tom,  throwing  stones  into 
the  sullen  river  below.  "I'm  far  too  tactful." 

Mrs.  Haughstone  looked  away.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's expression  of  admiration  on  her  face.  "You're 
big,  Mr.  Kelverdon,  very  big.  I  wish  all  men  were  as 
generous."  She  spoke  hurriedly  below  her  breath.  "I 
saw  this  coming  before  you  arrived.  I  wish  I  could  have 
saved  you.  You've  got  the  hero  in  you." 

Tom  changed  the  subject,  and  presently  moved  away: 
it  was  time  for  lunch  for  one  thing,  and  for  another  he 
wanted  to  hide  his  face  from  her  too  peering  eyes.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  of  himself  just  then ;  his  lips  trembled 
a  little ;  he  could  not  altogether  control  his  facial  muscles. 
Tony  jealous !  Lettice  piqued !  Was  this  the  explanation 
of  her  new  sweetness  towards  himself !  The  position 
tried  him  sorely,  testing  his  new  strength  from  such 


348  The  Wave 

amazing  and  unexpected  angles.  It  was  all  beyond  him 
somehow,  the  reversal  of  roles  so  afflicting,  tears  and 
laughter  so  oddly  mingled.  Yet  the  sheet-anchor — his 
selfless  love — held  fast  and  true.  There  was  no  dragging, 
no  shuffling  where  he  stood. 

Nor  was  there  any  weakening  of  resolution  in  him,  any 
dimming  of  the  new  dawn  within  his  heart.  He  felt  sure 
of  something  that  he  did  not  understand,  aware  of  a  ra- 
diant promise  some  one  whispered  marvelously  in  his 
ear.  He  was  alone,  yet  not  alone,  outcast  yet  compan- 
ioned sweetly,  bereft  of  all  the  world  holds  valuable,  yet 
possesor  of  riches  that  the  world  passed  by.  He  felt  a 
conqueror.  The  pain  seemed  somehow  turning  into  joy. 
He  seemed  above  the  earth.  Only  one  thing  mattered — 
that  his  ideal  love  should  have  no  stain  upon  it. 

The  lunch  he  dreaded  passed  smoothly  and  without 
alarm.  Tony  was  gay,  light-hearted  as  usual,  belying 
Mrs.  Haughstone's  ominous  prediction.  They  smoked 
together  afterwards,  walking  up  and  down  the  garden 
arm  in  arm,  Tony  eagerly  discussing  expeditions,  picnics, 
birds,  anything  and  everything  that  offered,  with  keen  in- 
terest as  of  old;  he  even  once  suggested  coming  back  to 
Assouan  with  his  cousin — alone!  .  .  .  Tom  made  no 
comment  on  the  adverb.  Nor  was  his  sympathy  mere 
acting ;  he  genuinely  felt  it ;  the  affection  for  Tony  some- 
how was  not  dead.  .  .  .  The  joy  in  him  grew,  mean- 
while, brighter,  clearer,  higher.  It  was  alive.  Some 
courage  of  the  sun  was  in  him.  There  seemed  a  great 
understanding  with  it,  and  a  greater  forgiveness. 

Of  one  thing  only  did  he  feel  uncertain.  He  caught 
himself  sharply  wondering  more  than  once.  For  he 
had  the  impression — the  conviction  almost — that  some- 
thing had  happened  during  his  absence  at  Assouan — 
that  there  was  a  change  in  her  attitude  to  Tony.  It  was 
a  subtle  change ;  it  was  beginning  merely ;  but  it  was 
there.  Her  behavior  at  breakfast  was  not  due  to  pique, 
not  solely  due  to  pique,  at  any  rate.  It  had  a  deeper  ori- 


The  Wave  349 

gin.  Almost  he  detected  signs  of  friction  between  herself 
and  Tony.  Very  slight  they  were  indeed,  if  not  imagined 
altogether.  His  perception  was  still  exceptionally  alert, 
its  acuteness  left  over,  apparently,  from  the  earlier  days 
of  pain  and  jealousy.  Yet  the  result  upon  him  was  con- 
fusing chiefly. 

In  very  trivial  ways  the  change  betrayed  itself.  The 
talk  between  the  three  of  them  remained  incongruously 
upon  the  surface  always.  The  play  and  chatter  went  on 
independently  of  the  Play  beneath,  almost  ignoring  it.  In 
that  Wordless  Play,  however,  the  change  was  registered. 

"Tom,  you've  got  the  straightest  back  of  any  man  I 
ever  saw,"  she  exclaimed  once,  eyeing  them  critically 
with  an  amused  smile  as  they  came  back  towards  her 
chair.  "I've  just  been  watching  you  both." 

They  laughed,  while  Tony  turned  it  wittily  into  fun. 
"It's  always  safer  to  look  a  person  in  the  face,"  he  ob- 
served. If  he  felt  the  comparison  was  made  to  his  dis- 
advantage he  did  not  show  it.  Tom,  wondering  what 
she  meant  and  why  she  said  it,  felt  that  the  remark  an- 
noyed him.  For  there  was  disparagement  of  Tony  in  it. 

"I  can  read  your  soul  from  your  back  alone,"  she 
added. 

"And  mine!"  cried  Tony,  laughing:  "What  about  my 
back  too  ?  Or  have  I  got  no  soul  misplaced  between  my 
shoulder-blades?" 

Tom  laid  his  hand  between  those  slightly-rounded 
shoulders  then — and  rather  suddenly. 

"It's  bent  from  too  much  creeping  after  birds,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "In  your  next  life  you'll  be  on  all  fours  if 
you're  not  careful." 

The  Arab  appeared  to  say  the  donkeys  and  sand-cart 
were  waiting  in  the  road,  and  Tony  went  indoors  to  get 
cameras  and  other  paraphernalia  essential  to  a  Desert 
picnic.  Lettice  continued  talking  idly  to  Tom,  who  stood 
beside  her,  smoking.  .  .  .  The  feeling  of  dream  and  real- 
ity were  very  strong  in  him  at  the  moment.  He  hardly 


350  The  Wave 

realized  what  the  nonsense  was  he  had  said  to  his  cousin. 
There  was  a  slight  sense  of  discomfort  in  him.  The  lit- 
tle, playful  conversation  just  over  had  meaning  in  it. 
He  missed  that  meaning.  Somehow  the  comparison  in 
his  favor  was  disagreeable — he  preferred  to  hear  his  cou- 
sin praised,  but  certainly  not  belittled.  Perhaps  vanity 
was  wounded  there — that  his  successful  rival  woke  con- 
tempt in  her  was  unendurable.  .  .  .  And  he  thought  of 
his  train  for  the  first  time  with  a  vague  relief. 

"Birds,"  she  was  saying,  half  to  herself,  the  eyes  be- 
neath the  big  sun-hat  looking  beyond  him,  "that  reminds 
me,  Tom — a  dream  I  had.  A  little  bird  left  its  nest  and 
hopped  about  to  try  all  the  other  branches,  because  it 
thought  it  ought  to  explore  them — had  to,  in  a  way.  And 
it  got  into  all  sorts  of  danger,  and  ran  fearful  risks,  and 
couldn't  fly  or  use  its  wings  properly, — till  finally " 

She  stopped,  and  her  eyes  turned  full  upon  his  own. 
The  love  in  his  face  was  plain  to  read,  though  he  was  not 
conscious  of  it.  He  waited  in  silence : 

"Till  finally  it  crept  back  up  into  its  own  nest  again," 
she  went  on,  "and  found  its  wings  lying  there  all  the 
time.  It  had  forgotten  them !  And  it  got  in,  felt  warm 
and  safe  and  cozy — and  fell  asleep." 

"Whereupon  you  woke  and  found  it  was  all  a  dream," 
said  Tom.  His  tone,  though  matter-of-fact,  was  lower 
than  usual,  but  it  was  firm.  No  sign  of  emotion  now  was 
visible  in  his  face.  The  eyes  were  steady,  the  lips  be- 
trayed no  hint.  Her  little  dream,  the  way  of  telling  it 
rather,  perplexed  him. 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  found  somehow  that  the  bird 
was  me."  She  sighed  a  little. 

It  flashed  upon  him  suddenly  that  she  was  exhausted, 
wearied  out;  that  her  heart  was  beating  with  some  in- 
terior stress  and  struggle.  She  seemed  on  the  point  of 
giving  up,  some  long  long  battle  in  her  ended.  There 
was  something  she  wished  to  say  to  him — he  got  this  im- 
pression too — something  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 


The  Wave  351 

say,  unless  he  helped  her,  unless  he  asked  for  it.  The 
duality  was  ending,  perhaps  fused  into  unity  agan?  .  .  . 
The  intense  and  burning  desire  to  help  her  rose  upon 
him,  the  desire  to  protect.  And  the  word  "Warsaw" 
fled  across  his  mind  ...  as  though  it  fell  through  the 
heated  air  into  his  mind  .  .  .  from  her's. 

"Tony  declares,"  she  was  saying,  "that  our  memories 
are  packed  away  under  pressure  like  steam  in  a  boiler, 
and  the  dream  is  their  safety-valve  ...  I  wonder.  .  .  . 
He  read  it  somewhere.  It's  not  his  own,  of  course.  But 
Tony  never  explains — because  he  doesn't  really  know. 
He's  flashy — not  the  depth  we  thought — the  truth  .  .  . 
Tom!" 

She  called  his  name  with  emphasis,  as  if  annoyed  that 
he  showed  so  little  interest.  There  was  an  instant's  cloud 
upon  her  face;  the  eyes  wavered,  then  looked  away;  he 
felt  again  there  was  disappointment  somewhere  in  her — 
w:th  himself  or  with  Tony,  he  did  not  know.  .  .  .  He 
kept  silent.  He  could  think  of  nothing  by  way  of  answer 
— nothing  appropriate,  nothing  safe. 

She  waited,  keeping  silent  too.  The  Curtain  was  low- 
ering, its  shadow  growing  on  the  air. 

"I  dream  so  little,"  he  stammered  at  length.  "I  can't 
say."  It  enraged  him  that  he  faltered.  He  turned  away. 
.  .  .  Tony  at  that  moment  arrived.  The  cart  and  animals 
were  ready,  everything  was  collected.  He  announced  it 
loudly,  urging  them  with  a  certain  impatience,  as  though 
they  caused  the  delay.  He  stared  keenly  at  them  a  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  They  started. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HOW  trivial,  yet  how  significant  of  the  tension  of  in- 
terior forces — the  careless  words,  the  foolish  little 
dream,  the  playful  allusion  to  one  man's  stoop  and  to 
another's  upright  carriage,  how  easy  to  read,  how  obvi- 
ous !  Yet  Tom,  too  intensely  preoccupied,  perhaps,  with 
keeping  his  own  balance,  was  unaware  of  revelation.  His 
mind  perceived  the  delicate  change,  yet  attached  a  wrong 
direction  to  it.  Perplexity  and  discomfort  in  him  deep- 
ened. He  was  relieved  when  Tony  interrupted;  he  felt 
glad.  The  shifting  of  values  was  disturbing  to  him.  It 
was  as  though  the  falling  Curtain  halted.  .  .  . 

The  hours  left  to  him  were  few;  they  both  rushed 
and  lingered.  The  afternoon  seemed  gone  so  quickly, 
while  yet  the  moments  dragged,  each  separate  instant  too 
intense  with  feeling  to  yield  up  its  being  willingly.  The 
minutes  lingered ;  it  was  the  hours  that  rushed. 

Subconsciously,  it  seemed,  Tom  counted  them  in  his 
heart.  .  .  .  Subconsciously,  too,  he  stated  the  position, 
as  though  to  do  so  steadied  him:  Three  persons,  three 
friends,  were  off  upon  a  picnic.  At  a  certain  moment 
they  would  turn  back;  at  a  certain  moment  two  of  them 
would  say  good-by;  at  a  certain  moment  a  final  train 
woud  start — his  eyes  would  no  longer  see  her.  ...  It 
seemed  impossible,  unreal;  it  could  not  happen.  .  .  .  He 
could  so  easily  prevent  it.  No  question  had  been  asked 
about  his  going  to  Cairo ;  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  he 
went  on  business  and  would  return.  He  could  cancel 
his  steamer-berth,  no  explanation  necessary,  nor  any 
asked. 

But  having  weighed  the  sacrifice  against  the  joy  he  was 
not  wanting. 

352 


The  Wave  353 

They  mounted  their  lusty  donkeys ;  Lettice  climbed  into 
her  sand-cart ;  the  boys  came  clattering  after  them  down 
the  street  of  Thebes  with  the  tea-things  and  the  bun- 
dles of  clover  for  the  animals.  Across  the  belt  of  bril- 
liant emerald  green,  past  clover-fields  and  groves  of 
palms,  they  followed  the  ancient  track  towards  the  des- 
ert. They  were  on  the  eastern  bank,  the  Theban  Hills 
far  behind  them  on  the  horizon.  Towards  the  Red  Sea 
they  headed,  though  Tom  had  no  notion  of  their  direc- 
tion, aware  only  that  while  they  went  further  and  further 
from  those  hills,  the  hills  themselves  somehow  came  ever 
nearer.  The  gaunt  outline  followed  them;  each  time  he 
looked  back  the  shadow  cast  was  closer  than  before,  al- 
most upon  their  heels.  But  for  the  assurance  of  his 
senses  he  could  have  believed  they  headed  towards  these 
yellow  cliffs  instead  of  the  reverse.  He  could  not  shake 
off  the  singular  impression  that  their  weight  was  on  his 
back ;  he  felt  the  oppression  of  those  ancient  tombs,  those 
crowded  corridors,  that  hidden  subterranean  world.  No 
mummy,  he  remembered,  but  believed  it  would  one  day 
unwind  again  when  the  soul,  cleansed  and  justified,  came 
back  to  claim  it.  Regeneration  was  inevitable.  A  glori- 
ous faith  secure  in  ultimate  joy! 

They  hurried  vainly;  the  distance  between  them,  in- 
stead of  increasing,  lessened.  The  hills  would  not  let 
them  go. 

The  burning  atmosphere,  the  motionless  air  caused 
doubtless  the  optical  illusion.  The  glare  was  blinding. 
Tom  did  not  draw  attention  to  it.  He  tugged  his  ob- 
stinate donkey  into  line  with  the  slower  sand-cart,  riding 
for  several  minutes  in  silence,  close  beside  Lettice,  aware 
of  her  perfume,  her  flying  veil  almost  across  his  eyes 
from  time  to  time.  Tony  was  some  way  ahead. 

"Tom,"  he  heard  suddenly,  "must  you  really  go  to 
Cairo  to-night?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  It's  important."  But  after  a  pause  he 
added  "Why?"  He  said  it  because  his  sentence  sounded 


354  The  Wave 

otherwise  suspiciously  incomplete.  Above  all,  he  must 
seem  natural.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

The  answer  made  him  regret  that  extra  word: 

"There's  something  I  want  to  tell  you." 

"Very  important  ?"  He  asked  it  laughingly,  busy  with 
the  reins  apparently. 

"Far  more  important  than  your  going  to  Cairo.  I  want 
your  advice  and  help." 

"I  must,"  he  said  slowly.  "Won't  it  keep?"  He  tugged 
violently  at  the  reins,  though  the  donkey  was  behaving 
admirably. 

"How  long  will  you  stay  ?"  she  asked. 

"One  night  only,  Lettice.     Not  longer." 

They  were  on  soft  and  yellow  sand  by  now ;  the  desert 
shone  with  a  luminous  glow ;  Tom  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  his  donkey's  hoofs,  nor  the  crunching  of  the 
sand-cart.  He  heard  nothing  but  a  voice  singing  beside 
him  in  the  burning  air.  But  the  air  had  grown  radiant. 
He  realized  that  he  was  beating  the  donkey  without  the 
slightest  reason. 

"When  you  come  back,  then — I'll  tell  you  when  you 
come  back,"  he  heard. 

And  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to  his  assistance. 
"Couldn't  you  write  it  ?"  he  asked  calmly.  "The  Semira- 
mis  Hotel  will  find  me — in  case  anything  happened.  I 
should  have  time  to  think  it  over — I  like  that  best — if  it's 
really  so  important.  My  mind,  you  know,  works  slowly." 

Her  reply  had  a  curious  effect  upon  him.  She  needed 
help — his  help.  "Perhaps,  Tom.  But  one  can  depend  so 
upon  your  judgment." 

He  knew  that  she  was  watching  his  face.  With  an  ef- 
fort he  turned  to  meet  her  gaze.  He  saw  her  against  the 
background  of  the  hills,  whose  following  mass  towered 
menacingly  above  her  little  outline.  And  as  he  looked  he 
was  suddenly  transfixed,  he  dropped  his  reins,  he  stared 
without  a  word.  Two  pairs  of  eyes,  two  smiles,  two 
human  physiognomies  once  again  met  his  arrested  gaze. 


The  Wave  355 

He  knew  them,  of  course,  well  enough  by  now,  but  never 
before  had  he  caught  the  two  expressions  so  vividly  re- 
vealed, so  distinctly  marked ;  clear  as  a  composite  picture, 
one  face  painted  in  upon  another  that  lay  beneath  it. 
There  was  the  darker  face — and  there  was  Lettice;  and 
each  struggled  for  complete  possession  of  her  features. 
There  was  conflict,  sharp  and  dreadful;  one  second,  the 
gleam  of  cruelty  flashed  out,  a  yellow  of  amber  in  it,  as 
though  gold  shone  reflected  faintly — the  next,  an  anguish 
of  tenderness,  as  though  love  brimmed  her  eyes  with 
the  moisture  of  divine  compassion.  The  conflict  was 
desperate,  amazing,  painful  beyond  words.  Then  the 
darker  aspect  slowly  waned,  withdrawing  backwards, 
melting  away  into  the  shadows  of  the  hills  behind — as 
though  it  first  had  issued  thence — as  though  almost  it  be- 
longed there.  Alive  and  true,  yet  vanquished,  it  faded 
out.  .  .  .  He  saw  at  last  the  dear,  innocent  eyes  of — Let- 
tice only.  It  was  this  Lettice  who  had  spoken. 

His  donkey  stumbled — it  was  natural  enough,  seeing 
that  the  reins  hung  loose  and  his  feet  had  somehow  left 
the  stirrups.  Tom  pitched  forward  heavily,  saving  him- 
self and  his  animal  from  an  ignominious  accident  just 
in  the  nick  of  time.  There  were  cries  and  laughter.  The 
sand-cart  swerved  aside  at  the  same  moment,  and  Tony, 
from  a  distance,  came  galloping  back  towards  them. 

Tom  recovered  his  balance  and  told  his  donkey  in  hon- 
est English  what  he  thought  of  it.  "But  it  was  your 
fault,  you  careless  boy,"  cried  Lettice;  "you  let  go  the 
reins  and  whacked  it  at  the  same  time.  Your  eyes  were 
popping  out  of  your  head.  I  thought  you'd  seen  a  ghost." 

Tom  glanced  at  her.  "I  was  nearly  off,"  he  said.  "An- 
other second  and  it  would  have  been  a  case  of  'Low  let 
me  lie  where  the  dead  dog ' " 

She  interrupted  him  with  surprising  vehemence: 

"Don't,  don't,  Tom.  I  hate  it!  I  hate  the  words  and 
the  tune  and  everything.  I  won't  hear  it  ...  !" 

Tony  came  clattering  up  and  the  incident  was  over, 


356  The  Wave 

ended  as  abruptly  as  begun.  But,  as  Tom  well  realized, 
another  hitch  had  occurred  in  the  lowering  of  the  Cur- 
tain. The  actors,  for  a  moment,  had  stood  there  in  their 
normal  fashion,  betrayed,  caught  in  the  act,  a  little  fool- 
ish even.  It  was  the  hand  of  a  woman  this  time  that 
delayed  it. 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself  anywhere,  Tom?"  Her  ques- 
tion rang  in  his  head  like  music  for  the  next  mile  or  two. 
He  kept  beside  the  sand-cart  until  they  reached  their 
destination.  It  was  absurd — yet  he  could  not  ride  in 
front  with  Tony  lest  some  one  driving  behind  them 
should  notice — yes,  that  was  the  half-comical  truth — 
notice  that  Tony  was  round-shouldered — oh,  very,  very 
slightly  so — whereas  his  own  back  was  straight!  It  was 
ridiculously  foolish,  yet  pathetic.  At  the  same  time,  it 
was  poignantly  dramatic.  .  .  . 

And  their  destination  was  a  deep  bay  of  yellow  sand, 
soft  and  tawny,  ribbed  with  a  series  of  lesser  troughs 
the  wind  had  scooped  out  to  look  like  a  shore  some  with- 
drawing ocean  had  left  exposed  below  the  westering  sun. 
A  solitary  palm  tree  stood  behind  upon  a  dune. 

The  afternoon,  the  beating  hotness  of  the  air,  the 
clouds  of  high,  suspended  sand,  the  stupendous  sunset — 
as  if  the  world  caught  fire  and  burned  along  the  whole 
horizon — it  was  all  unforgettable.  The  yellow  sand  about 
them  blazed  and  shone,  scorching  their  bare  hands;  the 
Desert  was  empty,  silent,  lonely.  Only  the  western  heav- 
ens, where  the  sun  sank  in  a  red  mass  of  ominous  splen- 
dor, was  alive  with  energy.  Colored  shafts  mapped  the 
vault  from  horizon  to  zenith  like  the  spokes  of  a  pro- 
digious wheel  of  fire.  Any  minute  the  air  and  the  sand 
it  pressed  upon  might  burst  into  a  sea  of  flame.  The 
furnace  where  the  Khamsin  brewed  in  distant  Nubia 
sent  its  warnings  in  advance ;  it  was  slowly  traveling 
northward.  And  hence,  possibly,  arose  the  disquieting 
sensation  that  something  was  gathering,  something  that 
might  take  them  unawares.  The  sand  lay  listening,  wait- 


The  Wave  357 

ing,  watching.  There  was  whispering  among  the  very 
grains.  .  .  . 

It  was  half  way  through  tea  when  the  first  stray  puffs 
of  wind  came  dropping  abruptly,  sighing  away  in  tiny 
eddies  of  dust  beyond  the  circle.  Three  human  atoms 
upon  the  huge  yellow  carpet,  that  ere  long  would  shake 
itself  across  five  hundred  miles  and  rise,  whirling,  driv- 
ing, suffocating  all  life  within  its  folds — three  human 
beings  noted  the  puffs  of  heated  air  and  reacted  variously 
to  the  little  change.  Each  felt,  it  seemed,  a  slight  un- 
easiness, as  though  of  trouble  coming  that  was  yet  not 
entirely  atmospherical.  Nerves  tingled.  They  looked 
into  each  other's  faces.  They  looked  back. 

"We  mustn't  stay  too  late,"  said  Tony,  filling  a  basket 
for  the  donkey-boys  in  their  dune  two  hundred  yards 
away.  "We've  a  long  way  to  go."  He  examined  the 
portentous  sky.  "It  won't  come  till  night,"  he  added, 
"still — they're  a  bit  awkward,  these  sandstorms,  and  one 
never  knows." 

"And  I've  got  a  train  to  catch,"  Tom  mentioned,  "ab- 
surd as  it  sounds  in  a  place  like  this."  He  was  scraping 
his  lips  with  a  handkerchief.  "I've  eaten  enough  bread- 
and-sand  to  last  me  till  dinner,  anyhow."  He  helped  his 
cousin  with  the  Arabs'  food.  "They  probably  don't  mind 
it,  they're  used  to  it."  He  straightened  up  from  his 
stooping  posture.  Lettice,  he  saw,  was  lying  with  a  cig- 
arette against  the  bank  of  sloping  sand  that  curved  above 
them.  She  was  intently  watching  them.  She  had  not 
spoken  for  some  time;  she  looked  almost  drowsy;  the 
eyelids  were  half  closed;  the  cigarette  smoke  rose  in  a 
steady  little  thread  that  did  not  waver.  .  .  .  There  was 
perhaps  ten  yards  between  them,  but  he  caught  the  direc- 
tion of  her  gaze,  and  throwing  his  own  eyes  into  the  same 
line  of  sight,  he  saw  what  she  saw.  Instinctively,  he  took 
a  quick  step  forward — hiding  Tony  from  her  immediate 
view. 

It  was  certainly  curious,  this  desire  to  screen  his  cou- 


358  The  Wave 

sin,  to  prevent  his  appearing  at  a  disadvantage.  He  was 
impelled,  at  all  costs  and  in  the  smallest  details,  to  help 
the  man  she  admired,  to  increase  his  value,  to  minimize 
his  disabilities,  however  trivial.  It  pained  him  to  see 
Tony  even  at  a  physical  disadvantage;  Tony  must  show 
always  at  his  very  best ;  and  at  this  moment,  bending  over 
the  baskets,  the  attitude  of  the  shoulders  was  disagree- 
ably emphasized. 

Tom  did  not  laugh,  he  did  not  even  smile.  Gravely, 
as  though  it  were  of  importance,  he  moved  forward  so 
that  Lettice  should  not  see  the  detail  of  the  rounded 
shoulders  that,  he  knew,  compared  unfavorably  with  his 
own  straighter  carriage.  Yet  almost  the  next  minute, 
when  he  looked  back  again,  he  saw  that  the  cigarette  had 
fallen  from  her  fingers,  the  eyes  were  closed,  her  body 
had  slipped  into  a  more  recumbent  angle,  she  seemed 
actually  asleep. 

"Give  a  shout,  Tom,  and  the  boys  will  come  to  fetch 
it,"  said  Tony,  when  at  length  the  basket  was  ready. 
He  put  his  hands  to  his  own  mouth  to  co-ee  across  the 
dunes.  Tom  stopped  him  at  once.  "Hush !  Lettice  has 
dropped  off,"  he  explained;  "you'll  wake  her.  It's  the 
heat.  I'll  carry  the  things  over  to  them."  He  noticed 
Tony's  hands  as  he  held  them  to  his  lips.  And  again 
he  felt  a  touch  of  sympathy,  almost  pity.  Had  she,  so 
observant,  so  discerning  in  her  fastidious  taste — had  she 
failed  to  notice  the  small  detail  too? 

"No,  let  me  take  it,"  Tony  was  saying,  seizing  the  ham- 
per from  his  cousin.  Tom  suggested  carrying  it  between 
them.  They  tried  it,  laughing  and  struggling  together 
with  the  awkward  burden,  but  keeping  their  voices  low. 
They  lost  the  direction  too;  for  all  the  sand-dunes  were 
alike,  and  the  boys  were  hidden  in  a  hollow.  It  ended 
in  Tony  going  off  in  triumph  with  the  basket  under  one 
arm,  guided  at  length  by  the  faint  neighing  of  a  donkey 
in  the  distance. 

Some  little  time  had  passed,  perhaps  five  minutes,  per- 


The  Wave  359 

haps  longer,  and  Tom  went  back  to  the  tea-place  across 
the  soft  sand,  stepping  cautiously  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  sleeper.  And  another  five  minutes,  perhaps  another 
ten,  had  slipped  by  before  Tony's  head  reappeared  above 
a  neighboring  dune.  A  boy  had  come  to  meet  him,  short- 
ening his  journey. 

But  Fate  calculated  to  a  nicety,  wasting  no  seconds 
one  way  or  the  other.  There  had  been  time — just  time 
before  Tony's  return — for  Tom  to  have  stretched  himself 
at  her  feet,  to  have  lit  a  cigarette,  and  to  have  smoked 
sufficient  of  it  for  the  first  ash  to  fall.  He  was  very 
careful  to  make  no  sound,  even  lighting  the  match  softly 
inside  his  hat.  But  his  hand  was  trembling.  For  Lettice 
slept,  and  in  her  sleep  made  little  sounds  of  pain.  No 
words  were  audible.  .  .  .  He  watched  her.  There  was 
a  tiny  frown  between  the  eyebrows,  the  lips  twitched 
from  time  to  time,  she  moved  uneasily  upon  the  bank  of 
sliding  sand ;  and,  as  she  made  these  little  broken  sounds 
of  pain,  from  beneath  the  closed  eyelids  two  small  tears 
crept  out  upon  her  cheeks. 

Tom  watched,  making  no  sound  or  movement.  The 
tears  rolled  down  and  fell  into  the  sand.  The  suffering 
in  the  face  made  his  heart  beat  irregularly.  Something 
transfixed  him.  She  wore  the  expression  he  had  seen  in 
the  London  theater.  For  a  moment  he  felt  terror — a  ter- 
ror of  something  coming,  something  going  to  happen. 
He  stared,  trembling,  holding  his  breath.  She  was  dream- 
ing, as  a  person  even  in  a  three-minute  sleep  can  dream — 
deeply,  vividly.  He  waited.  He  had  the  amazing  sen- 
sation that  he  knew  what  she  was  dreaming — that  he  took 
part  in  it  with  her  almost.  .  .  .  Unable,  finally,  to  re- 
strain himself  another  instant,  he  moved — and  the  noise 
wakened  her.  She  sighed.  The  eyes  opened  of  their 
own  accord.  She  stared  at  him  in  a  dazed  way  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  looked  over  his  shoulder  across  the 
desert. 


360  The  Wave 

"You've  been  asleep,  Lettice,"  he  whispered,  "and  ac- 
tually dreaming — all  in  five  minutes." 

She  rubbed  her  eyes  slowly,  as  though  sand  was  in 
them.  She  stared  into  his  face  a  moment  before  she 
spoke. 

"Yes,  I  dreamed,"  she  answered  with  a  little  fright- 
ened sigh.  "I  dreamed  of  you There  was  a  tent — 

the  flap  lifted  suddenly — oh,  it  was  so  vivid !  Then  there 
was  a  crowd  and  awful  drums  were  beating — and  my 
river  with  the  floating  faces  was  there  and  I  plunged  in 
to  save  one — it  was  yours,  Tom,  yours " 

She  paused  for  a  fraction  of  a  second,  while  his  heart 
went  thumping  against  his  ribs.  He  did  not  speak.  He 
waited. 

"Then  somehow  you  were  taken  from  me,"  she  went 
on ;  "you  left  me,  Tom."  Her  voice  sank.  "And  it  broke 
my  heart  in  two." 

"Lettice  .  .  .   !" 

He  made  a  sudden  movement  in  the  sand — at  which 
movement,  precisely,  Tony's  head  appeared  above  the 
neighboring  dune,  the  rest  of  his  body  following  it  im- 
mediately. 

And  it  seemed  to  Tom  that  his  cousin  came  upon  them 
out  of  the  heart  of  a  dream,  out  of  the  earth,  out  of  a 
sandy  tomb.  His  very  existence,  for  those  minutes,  had 
been  utterly  forgotten,  obliterated.  He  rose  from  the 
dead  and  came  towards  them  over  the  hot,  yellow  desert. 
The  distant  hills— the  Theban  Hills  above  the  Valley  of 
the  Kings — disgorged  him.  And,  as  once  before,  he 
looked  dreadful,  threatening,  his  great  hands  held  out  in 
front  of  him.  He  came  gliding  down  the  yielding  slope. 
He  caught  them ! 

In  that  second — it  was  but  the  fraction  of  a  second 
actually — the  impression  upon  Tom's  mind  was  acute  and 
terrible.  Speech  and  movement  were  not  in  him  any- 
where ;  he  could  only  sit  and  stare,  both  terrified  and  fas- 
cinated. Between  himself  and  Lettice  stretched  an  in- 


The  Wave  361 

terval  of  six  feet  certainly,  and  into  this  very  gap,  the 
figure  of  his  cousin,  followed  and  preceded  by  heaps  of 
moving  sand,  descended  now.  It  was  towards  Lettice 
that  Tony  came  so  swiftly  gliding. 

It  was  his  cousin  surely  .  .  .   ? 

He  saw  the  big  hands  outspread,  he  saw  the  slightly 
stooping  shoulders,  he  saw  the  face  and  eyes,  the  light 
blue  eyes.  But  also  he  saw  strange,  unaccustomed  rai- 
ment, he  saw  a  sheet  of  gold,  he  smelt  the  soft  breath 
of  ambra.  .  .  .  And  the  face  was  dark  and  menacing. 
There  were  words,  too,  careless,  playful  words,  uttered 
undoubtedly  by  Tony's  familiar  voice:  "Caught  you 
both  asleep !  Well,  I  declare !  You  are  a  couple  ...  !" 
followed  by  something  else  about  its  being  "time  to  pack 
up  and  go  because  the  sand  was  coming.  .  .  ."  Tom 
heard  the  words  distinctly,  but  far  away,  tiny  with  curi- 
ous distance ;  they  were  half  smothered,  half  submerged, 
it  seemed,  behind  an  acute  inner  hearing  that  caught  an- 
other set  of  words  he  could  not  understand — in  a  lan- 
guage he  both  remembered  and  forgot.  And  the  deep 
sense  of  dread  passed  swiftly  then  into  a  blinding  jealous 
rage;  he  saw  red;  a  fury  of  wrath  that  could  kill  and 
stab  and  strangle  rushed  over  him  in  a  flood  of  passionate 
emotion.  He  lost  control.  He  rushed  headlong. 

Seconds  dragged  out  incredibly  into  minutes,  as  though 
time  halted.  ...  An  intense,  murderous  hatred  blazed 
in  his  heart. 

From  where  he  sat,  both  figures  were  above  him,  shel- 
tered half  way  up  the  long  sliding  slope.  At  the  base 
of  the  yellow  dune  he  crouched;  he  looked  up  at  them. 
His  eyes  perhaps  were  blinded  by  the  red  tempest  in  his 
heart;  or  perhaps  the  tiny  particles  of  flying  sand  drove 
against  his  eyeballs.  He  saw,  at  any  rate,  the  two  fig- 
ures close  together,  as  if  the  man  came  gliding  straight 
into  her  arms. 

At  the  same  moment  a  draught  of  sudden,  violent  wind 
broke  with  a  pouring  rush  across  the  desert,  and  the  en- 


362  The  Wave 

tire  crest  of  the  undulating  dune  behind  them  rose  to 
meet  it  in  a  single  whirling  eddy.  As  a  gust  of  sea-wind 
tosses  the  spray  into  the  air,  this  burst  of  scorching  des- 
ert-wind drew  the  ridge  up  after  it,  then  flung  it  in  a 
blinding  swirl  against  his  face  and  skin. 

The  dune  rose  in  a  Wave  of  glittering  yellow  sand, 
drowning  them  from  head  to  foot.  He  saw  the  glint  and 
shimmer  of  the  myriad  particles  in  the  sunset;  he  saw 
them  drifting  by  the  thousand,  by  the  million  through 
the  whirling  mass  of  it;  he  saw  the  two  figures  side  by 
side  above  him,  caught  beneath  the  toppling  crest  of  this 
bending  billow  that  curved  and  broke  against  the  fiery 
sky ;  he  smelt  the  faint  perfume  of  the  desert  underneath 
the  hollow  arch;  he  heard  the  thin,  metallic  grating  of 
the  countless  grains  in  friction ;  he  heard  the  palm  leaves 
rattling;  he  saw  two  pairs  of  eyes  ...  his  feet  went 
shuffling.  It  was  The  Wave — of  sand.  .  .  . 

And  the  nightmare  clutch  laid  hold  upon  his  heart  with 
giant  pincers.  The  fiery  red  of  insensate  anger  burst 
into  flames,  filled  his  throat  to  choking,  set  his  paralyzed 
muscles  free  with  uncontrollable  energy.  This  savage 
lust  of  murder  caught  him.  The  shuffling  went  faster, 
faster.  .  .  .  He  turned  and  faced  the  eyes.  He  would 
kill — rather  than  see  her  touched  by  those  great  hands. 
It  seemed  he  made  the  leap  of  a  wild  animal  upon  its 
prey.  .  .  . 

Fire  flashed  .  .  .  then  passed,  before  he  knew  it,  from 
red  to  shining  amber,  from  sullen  crimson  into  purest  • 
gold,  from  gold  to  the  sheen  of  dazzling  whiteness.  The 
change  was  instantaneous.  His  leap  was  arrested  in  mid- 
air. The  red  wrath  passed  amazingly,  forgotten  or  trans- 
muted. With  a  miraculous  swiftness  he  was  aware  of 
understanding,  of  sympathy,  of  forgiveness.  .  .  .  The 
red  light  melted  into  white — the  white  of  glory.  The 
murder  faded  from  his  heart,  replaced  by  a  deep,  deep 
glow  of  peace,  of  love,  of  infinite  trust,  of  complete  com- 


The  Wave  363 

prehension.  .  .  .  He  accepted  something  marvelously. 
He  forgot — himself.  .  .  . 

The  eyes  faded,  the  gold,  the  raiment,  the  perfume 
vanished,  the  sound  died  away.  He  no  longer  shuffled 
upon  yielding  sand.  There  was  solid  ground  beneath  his 
feet.  ...  He  was  standing  alert  and  upright,  his  arms 
outstretched  to  save — Tony  from  collapse  upon  the  slid- 
ing dune.  And  the  sandy  wind  drove  blindingly  against 
his  face  and  skin. 

The  three  of  them  stood  side  by  side,  holding  to  each 
other,  laughing,  choking,  spluttering,  heads  bent  and  eyes 
closed  tightly.  Tom  found  his  cousin's  hand  in  his 
own,  clutching  it  firmly  to  keep  his  balance,  while  behind 
himself — against  his  "straight  back/'  he  realized,  even 
while  he  choked  and  laughed — Lettice  clung  for  shelter. 
Tom,  therefore,  actually  had  leaped  forward — but  to  pro- 
tect and  not  to  kill.  He  protected  both  of  them.  This 
time,  however,  it  was  to  himself  that  Lettice  clung,  in- 
stead of  to  another. 

The  violent  gust  passed  on  its  way,  the  flying  cloud  of 
sand  subsided,  settling  down  on  everything.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  stood  there  rubbing  their  eyes,  shaking  their 
clothing  free;  then  raising  their  heads  cautiously,  they 
looked  about  them.  The  air  was  still  and  calm  again, 
but  in  the  distance,  already  a  mile  away  and  swiftly  trav- 
eling across  the  luminous  waste,  they  saw  the  miniature 
whirlwind  driving  furiously,  leaping  from  ridge  to  ridge. 
It  swept  over  the  innumerable  dunes,  lifting  the  series, 
one  crest  after  another,  into  upright  waves  upon  a  yellow 
shimmering  sea,  then  scattering  them  in  a  cloud  that 
shone  and  glinted  against  the  fiery  sunset.  Its  track  was 
easily  marked.  They  watched  it.  ... 

Tony  was  the  first  to  recover  breath. 

"Whew !"  he  cried,  still  spluttering,  "but  that  was  sud- 
den !  It  took  me  clean  off  my  feet  for  a  moment.  I  got 
your  hand,  Tom,  only  just  in  time  to  save  myself !"  He 
shook  himself,  the  sand  was  down  his  back  and  in  his 


364  The  Wave 

hair,  his  shoes  were  full  of  it.  "There'll  be  another  any 
minute  now — another  whirlwind — we'd  better  be  start- 
ing." He  began  packing  up  busily,  shouting  as  he  did  so 
to  the  donkey-boys.  "By  jove!"  he  cried  the  next  sec- 
ond, "look  what's  happened  to  our  dune !" 

Tom,  who  was  on  his  knees,  helping  Lettice  shake  her 
skirts  free,  rose  to  look.  The  high,  curving  bank  of  sand 
where  they  had  sheltered  had  indeed  changed  its  shape; 
the  entire  ridge  had  been  flattened  by  the  wind ;  the  crest 
had  been  lifted  and  carried  away,  scattered  in  all  direc- 
tions. The  wave-outline  of  two  minutes  before  no  longer 
existed,  it  had  broken,  fallen  over,  melted  back  into  the 
surrounding  sea  of  desert  whence  it  rose.  .  .  . 

"It's  disappeared!"  exclaimed  Tom  and  Lettice  in  the 
same  breath. 

The  boys  arrived  with  the  animals  and  sand-cart;  the 
baskets  were  quickly  arranged,  Tony  mounted,  Tom 
helped  Lettice  in.  She  leaned  heavily  on  his  arm  and 
shoulder.  It  was  in  this  moment's  pause  before  the  ac- 
tual start  that  Lettice  turned  her  head  suddenly  as  though 
listening.  The  air,  motionless  again,  extraordinarily 
heated,  hung  in  a  dull  and  yet  transparent  curtain  be- 
tween them  and  the  sinking  sun.  The  entire  heavens 
seemed  to  form  a  sounding-board,  the  least  vibration  res- 
onant beneath  its  stretch. 

"Listen !"  she  exclaimed.  She  had  uttered  no  word  till 
now.  She  looked  down  at  Tom,  then  looked  away  again. 

They  turned  their  heads  in  the  direction  where  she 
pointed,  and  Tom  caught  a  faint,  distant  sound  as  of  little 
strokes  that  fell  thudding  on  the  heavy  air.  Tony  de- 
clared he  heard  nothing.  The  sound  repeated  itself  rap- 
idly, but  at  rhythmic  intervals;  it  was  unpleasant  some- 
where, a  hint  of  alarm  and  menace  in  the  throbbing 
note — ominous  as  though  it  warned.  In  the  pulse  of  the 
blood  it  seemed,  like  the  beating  of  the  heart,  Tom 
thought.  It  came  to  him  almost  through  the  pressure  of 


The  Wave  365 

her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  although  his  ear  told  him  it 
came  from  the  horizon  where  the  Theban  Hills  loomed 
through  the  coming  dusk,  just  visible,  but  shadowy.  The 
muttering  died  away,  then  ceased,  but  not  before  he  sud- 
denly recalled  an  early  morning  hour  beside  a  mountain 
lake,  when  months  ago  the  thud  of  invisible  paddle-wheels 
had  stolen  upon  him  through  the  quiet  air.  .  .  . 

"A  drum,"  he  heard  Lettice  murmur.  "It's  a  native 
drum  in  Thebes.  My  little  dream !  How  the  sound  trav- 
els too!  And  how  it  multiplies!"  She  peered  at  Tom 
through  half-closed  eyelids.  "It  must  be  at  least  a  dozen 
miles  away  ...  !"  She  smiled  faintly,  then  dropped 
her  eyes  quickly. 

"Or  a  dozen  centuries,"  he  replied,  not  knowing  quite 
why  he  said  it.  "And  more  like  a  thousand  drums  than 
only  one!"  He  smiled  too.  For  another  part  of  him, 
beyond  capture  somehow,  knew  what  he  meant,  knew  also 
why  he  smiled — knew  also  that  she  knew. 

"It  frightens  me !  It's  horrible.  It  sounds  like  death !" 
And  though  she  whispered  the  words,  more  to  herself 
than  to  the  others,  Tom  heard  each  syllable. 

The  sound  died  away  into  the  distance,  and  then 
ceased. 

Then  Tony,  watching  them  both,  but,  unable  to  hear 
anything  himself,  called  out  again  impatiently  that  it  was 
time  to  start,  that  Tom  had  a  train  to  catch,  that  any 
minute  the  real,  big  wind  might  be  upon  them.  The  hand 
slowly,  half  lingeringly,  left  Tom's  shoulder.  They  start- 
ed rapidly  with  a  kind  of  flourish.  In  a  thin,  black  line 
the  small  procession  crept  across  the  immense  darkening 
desert,  like  a  strip  of  life  that  drifted  upon  a  shoreless 
ocean.  .  .  . 

The  sun  sank  down  below  the  Lybian  sands.  But  no 
awful  wind  descended.  They  reached  home  safely,  ex- 
hausted and  rather  silent.  The  two  hours  seemed  to  Tom 
to  have  passed  with  a  dream-like  swiftness.  The  stars 
were  shining  as  they  clattered  down  the  little  Luxor 


366  The  Wave 

street.  In  a  dream,  too,,  he  went  to  the  hotel  to  change, 
and  fetch  his  bag ;  in  a  dream  he  stood  upon  the  platform, 
held  Tony's  hand,  held  the  soft  hand  of  Lettice,  said 
good-by  .  .  .  and  watched  the  station  lights  glide  past  as 
he  left  them  standing  there  together. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ONE  incident,  however, — trivial,  yet  pregnant  with 
significant  revelation, — remained  vividly  outside  the 
dream.  The  Play  behind  broke  through,  as  it  were;  an 
actor  forgot  his  role,  and  involved  another  actor;  for  an 
instant  the  masquerade  tripped  up,  and  merged  with  the 
commonplace  reality  of  daily  life.  Explicit  disclosure 
lay  in  the  trifling  matter. 

There  was  a  touch  of  comedy,  but  of  rather  ghastly 
comedy,  ludicrous  and  at  the  same  time  painful — those 
smart,  new  yellow  gloves  that  Tony  put  on  when  he 
climbed  into  the  sand-cart  and  took  the  reins.  His  don- 
key had  gone  lame,  he  abandoned  it  to  the  boys  behind, 
he  climbed  in  to  drive  with  Lettice.  Tom,  riding  beside 
the  cart,  witnessed  the  entire  incident;  he  laughed  as 
heartily  as  either  of  the  others ;  he  felt  it,  however,  as  she 
felt  it — a  new  sudden  spiritual  proximity  to  her  proved 
this  to  him.  Both  shrank — from  something  disagreeable 
and  afflicting.  The  hands  looked  somehow  dreadful. 

For  the  first  time  Tom  realized  the  physiognomy  of 
hands — that  hands,  rather  than  faces,  should  be  photo- 
graphed ;  not  merely  that  they  seemed  now  so  large,  so 
spread,  so  ugly,  but  that  somehow  the  glaring  canary 
yellow  subtly  emphasized  another  aspect  that  was  dis- 
tasteful and  unpleasant — an  undesirable  aspect  in  their 
owner.  The  cotton  was  atrocious.  So  obvious  was  it  to 
Tom  that  he  felt  pity  before  he  felt  disgust.  The  obnox- 
ious revelation  was  so  palpable.  He  was  aware  that  he 
felt  ashamed — for  Lettice.  He  stared  for  a  moment, 
unable  to  move  his  eyes  away.  The  next  second,  lifting 
his  glance,  he  saw  that  she,  too,  had  noticed  it.  With 
a  flash  of  keen  relief,  he  was  aware  that  she,  like  himself, 

367 


368  The  Wave 

shrank  visibly  from  the  distressing  half-sinister  revela- 
tion that  was  betrayal. 

The  hands,  cased  in  their  ridiculous  yellow  cotton,  had 
physiognomy.  Upon  the  pair  of  them,  just  then,  was  an 
expression  not  to  be  denied :  of  furtiveness,  of  something 
sly  and  unreliable,  a  quality  not  to  be  depended  on 
through  thick  and  thin,  able  to  grasp  for  themselves  but 
not  to  hold — for  others;  eager  to  take,  yet  incompetent 
to  give.  The  hands  were  selfish,  mean  and  unprotective. 
It  was  a  remarkable  disclosure  of  innate  duality  hitherto 
concealed.  Their  physiognomy  dropped  a  mask  the  face 
still  wore.  The  hands  looked  straight  at  Lettice;  they 
assumed  a  sensual  leer;  they  grinned. 

"One  second,"  Tony  cried,  "the  reins  hurt  my  fingers," 
— and  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  the  gloves  and  quickly 
slipped  them  on — canary  yellow — cotton ! 

"Oh,  oh !"  exclaimed  Lettice,  "but  how  can  you !  It's 
ghastly  .  .  .  for  a  man  ...  !"  She  stared  a  moment,, 
as  though  fascinated,  then  turned  her  eyes  away,  flicking 
the  whip  in  the  air  and  laughing — a  trifle  boisterously. 

Why  the  innocent,  if  vulgar,  scraps  of  clothing  should 
have  been  so  revealing  was  hard  to  say.  That  they  were 
incongruous  and  out  of  place  in  the  Desert  was  surely 
an  inconsiderable  thing,  that  they  were  possibly  in  bad 
taste  was  of  even  less  account.  It  was  something  more 
than  that.  It  came  in  a  second  of  vivid  intuition — so,  at 
least,  it  seemed  to  Tom,  and  therefore  perhaps  to  Lettice 
too — that  he  saw  his  cousin's  soul  behind  the  foolish  de- 
tail. Tony  had  put  his  soul  upon  his  hands — and  the 
hands  were  somewhere  cheap  and  worthless. 

So  difficult  was  it  to  catch  the  elusive  thought  in  lan- 
guage, that  Tom  certainly  used  none  of  the  adjectives 
that  flashed  unbidden  across  his  mind;  he  assuredly 
thought  neither  of  "coarse,"  "untrustworthy,"  nor  of 
"false"  or  "nasty" — yet  the  last  named  came  probably 
nearest  to  expressing  the  disquieting  sensation  that  laid 
its  instant  pressure  upon  his  nerves,  then  went  its  way 


The  Wave  369 

again.  It  was  disturbing  in  a  very  searching  way ;  he  felt 
uneasy  for  her  sake.  How  could  he  leave  her  with  the 
owner  of  those  hands,  the  wearer  of  those  appalling  yel- 
low cotton  gloves !  The  laughter  in  him  was  subtle  mock- 
ery. For,  of  course,  he  laughed  at  himself  for  such  an 
absurd  conclusion.  .  .  .  Yet,  somehow,  those  gloves  re- 
vealed the  man,  betrayed  him  mercilessly!  The  hands 
themselves  were  stained  and  they  were — naked. 

It  was  just  then  that  her  exclamation  of  disapproval 
interrupted  Tom's  curious  sensations.  It  came  with  wel- 
come. "Thank  Heavens !"  a  voice  cried  inside  him.  .  .  . 
"She  feels  it  too!" 

"But  my  sister  sent  them  to  me,"  Tony  defended  him- 
self, "sent  them  from  London.  They're  the  latest  thing 
at  home!"  He  was  laughing  at  himself.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  shifting  the  responsibility  as  usual. 

Lettice  laughed  with  him  then,  though  her  laughter 
held  another  note  that  was  not  merriment.  He  felt  dis- 
gust, resentment  in  her.  There  was  no  pity  there.  Tony 
had  missed  a  cue — the  entire  Play  was  blocked.  The 
"hero"  stirred  contempt  in  place  of  admiration.  But 
more — the  incident  confirmed,  it  seemed,  much  else  that 
had  preceded  it.  Her  eyes  were  opened. 

The  conflict  of  pain  and  joy  in  Tom  was  most  acute. 
His  entire  sacrifice — for  an  instant — trembled  in  a  hair- 
like  balance.  For  the  capital  role  stood  gravely  en- 
dangered in  her  eyes. 

"Take  them  off,  Tony !  Put  them  away !  Hide  them ! 
I  couldn't  trust  you  to  drive  me  with  such  things  on  your 
hands.  A  man  in  yellow  canary  cotton !" 

All  three  laughed  together,  and  Tom,  -watching  the  triv- 
ial incident,  as  he  rode  beside  them,  saw  her  seize  one 
hand  and  pull  the  glove  off  by  the  fingers.  It  seemed  she 
tore  a  mask  from  one  side  of  his  face — the  face  beneath 
was  disfigured.  The  glove  fell  into  the  bottom  of  the 
cart,  then  caught  the  loose  rein  and  was  jerked  out  upon 
the  sand.  The  next  second,  something  of  covert  fury  in 


370  The  Wave 

the  gesture,  Tony  had  taken  off  the  other  and  tossed  it  to 
keep  company  with  the  first.  Both  hands  showed  naked : 
the  entire  face  was  bare.  Tom  looked  away. 

"They  are  hideous  rather,  I  admit,"  exclaimed  Tony. 
"The  donkey  boys  can  pick  them  up  and  wear  them." 
And  there  was  mortification  in  his  tone  and  manner;  al- 
most— he  was  found  out. 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  pregnant  little  incident  that 
held  persistently  before  Tom's  mind  now,  as  the  train 
bore  him  the  long  night  through  between  the  desert  and 
the  river  that  were  Egypt.  The  bigger  crowding  pic- 
tures, scenes  and  sentences,  thronged  panorama  of  the 
recent  weeks,  lay  in  hiding  underneath;  but  it  was  the 
incident  of  those  yellow  gloves  that  memory  tossed  up 
for  ever  before  his  eyes.  He  clung  to  it  in  spite  of 
himself.  Imagination  played  its  impish  pranks.  What 
did  it  portend?  Removing  gloves  was  the  first  act  in 
undressing,  it  struck  him.  Tony  had  dressed  up  for  the 
Play,  the  Play  was  over,  he  must  put  off,  piece  by  piece, 
the  glamour  he  had  worn  so  successfully  for  his  passion- 
ate role.  Once  off  the  stage,  the  enchantment  of  the 
limelight,  the  scenery,  the  raiment  of  gold  that  left  a 
perfume  of  ambra  in  the  air — all  the  assumed  allurements 
he  had  borrowed  must  be  discarded.  The  Tony  of  the 
dream  withdrew,  the  real  Tony  stood  discovered,  un- 
dressed— by  no  means  admirable.  No  longer  on  the 
boards,  walking  like  a  king,  with  the  regal  fascination 
of  an  older  day,  he  would  pass  along  the  busy  street  un- 
noticed, unadorned,  bereft  of  the  high  distinction  that 
imagination,  so  strangely  stirred,  had  laid  upon  him  for 
a  little  space.  .  .  .  The  yellow  gloves  lay  now  upon  the 
desert  sand;  perhaps  the  whirling  tempest  tossed  them 
to  and  fro,  perhaps  it  buried  them;  perhaps  the  Arab 
boys,  proud  of  the  tinsel  they  mistook  for  gold,  now  wore 
them  in  their  sleep,  lying  on  beds  of  rushes  beneath  the 
flat-roofed  houses  of  sun-baked  clay.  .  .  . 


The  Wave  371 

This  vivid  detail  kept  the  heavier  memories  back  at 
first ;  somehow  the  long  review  of  his  brief  Egyptian  win- 
ter blocked  each  time  against  a  pair  of  stooping  shoulders 
and  a  pair  of  yellow  cotton  gloves. 

During  the  voyage  of  four  days,  however,  followed 
then  the  inevitable  cruel  aftermath  of  doubt,  suspicion, 
jealousy  he  had  fancied  long  since  overthrown.  A  hun- 
dred incidents  and  details  forced  themselves  upon  him 
from  the  past — glances,  gestures,  phrases,  such  little 
things  and  yet  so  pregnant  with  delayed  or  undelivered 
meaning.  The  meanings  rose  remorselessly  to  the  sur- 
face now. 

All  belonged  to  the  first  days  in  Egypt  before  he  no- 
ticed anything;  the  mind  worked  backwards  to  thei.r 
gleaning.  They  had  escaped  his  attention  at  the  time,  yet 
the  mind  had  registered  them  none  the  less.  He  did  not 
seek  their  recovery,  but  the  series  offered  itself,  com- 
pelling him  to  examine  one  and  all,  demanding  that  he 
should  pass  judgment.  He  forced  them  back,  they  leaped 
up  again  on  springs ;  the  resilience  was  due  to  their  life, 
their  truth ;  they  were  not  to  be  denied. 

All  pointed  to  the  same  conclusion:  the  month  spent 
alone  with  Tony  had  worked  the  mischief  before  his  own 
arrival — by  the  time  he  came  upon  the  scene  the  new 
relationship  was  in  full  swing  beyond  her  power  to  stop 
it.  Heavens,  he  had  been  blind!  Ceaselessly,  endlessly, 
he  made  the  circle  of  alternate  pain  and  joy,  of  hope  and 
despair,  of  doubt  and  confidences — yet  the  ideal  in  him 
safe  beyond  assault.  He  believed  in  her,  he  trusted,  and 
he — hoped. 

The  most  poignant  test,  however,  came  when  port  was 
reached  and  the  scented  land-wind  met  his  nostrils  with 
the — Spring.  He  saw  the  harbor  with  its  white  houses 
shining  in  the  early  April  sunshine ;  the  blue  sea  recalled 
a  wide-shored  lake  among  the  mountains  :  he  saw  the  sea- 
gulls, heard  the  lapping  of  the  waves  against  the  ship- 
ping. .  .  . 


372  The  Wave 

He  took  the  train  to  a  little  town  along  the  coast,  mean- 
ing to  stay  there  a  day  or  two  before  facing  London, 
where  the  dismantling  of  the  Brown  Flat,  and  the  search 
for  work  awaited  him.  And  there  the  full-blooded 
spring  of  this  southern  climate  took  him  by  the  throat. 
The  haze,  the  sweet  moist  air,  the  luscious  fields,  the 
woods  and  flowery  roads,  above  all  the  singing  birds — 
this  biting  contrast  with  the  dry,  blazing  desert  skies  of 
tawny  Egypt  was  dislocating.  The  fierce  glare  of  per- 
petual summer  seemed  a  nightmare  he  had  left  behind; 
he  came  back  to  the  sweet  companionship  of  friendly  life 
in  field  and  tree  and  flower. 

The  first  soft  shower  of  rain,  the  first  long  twilight,  the 
singing  of  the  thrushes  after  dark,  the  light  in  the  little 
homestead  windows — he  felt  such  intimate  kindness  in  it 
all  that  the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  He  longed  to  share 
it  with  her  .  .  .  there  was  no  joy  in  life  without  her.  .  .  . 
Egypt  lay  behind  him  with  its  awful  loneliness,  its  stern, 
forbidding  emptiness,  its  nightmare  sunsets,  its  cruel  des- 
ert, its  appalling  vastness  in  which  everything  had  al- 
ready happened.  Thebes  was  a  single,  enormous  tomb; 
his  past  lay  buried  there;  from  the  solemn,  mournful, 
desolate  hills  he  had  escaped.  ...  He  emerged  into  a 
smiling  land  of  running  streams  and  flowers.  His  new 
life  was  beginning  like  the  Spring.  It  gushed  everywhere, 
reminding  him  of  another  Spring  he  had  known  among 
the  mountains.  .  .  .  The  "sum  of  loss"  he  counted  min- 
ute by  minute,  hour  by  hour,  day  by  day.  He  began 
the  long,  long  reckoning.  .  .  . 

He  felt  intolerably  alone.  The  hunger  and  yearning  in 
his  heart  seemed  more  than  he  could  bear.  This  beauty 
.  .  .  without  her  beside  him,  without  her  to  share  the 
sweet  companionship  of  the  earth  .  .  .  was  too  much  to 
bear.  For  one  minute  with  her  beside  him  in  the  mead- 
ows, picking  flowers,  listening  to  the  birds,  her  blue  veil 
flying  in  the  wet  mountain  wind — he  would  have  given  all 
his  life,  his  past,  his  future,  everything  that  mind  and 


The  Wave  373 

heart  held  precious.  ...  In  the  middle  of  which  and  at 
its  darkest  moment  came  the  certain  knowledge  with  a 
joy  that  broke  in  light  and  rapture  on  his  soul — that  she 
was  beside  him  because  she  was  within  him.  .  .  .  He 
approached  the  impersonal,  selfless  attitude  to  which  the 
attainment  of  an  ideal  alone  is  possible.  She  had  been 
added  to  him.  . 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  silence,  meanwhile,  was  like  the  silence  that 
death  brings.  He  clung  tenaciously  to  his  ideal,  yet 
he  thought  of  her  daily,  nightly,  hourly.  She  was  really 
never  absent  from  his  thoughts.  He  starved,  yet  per- 
haps he  did  not  know  he  starved.  .  .  .  The  days  grew 
into  weeks  with  a  grinding,  dreadful  slowness.  He  had 
written  from  the  steamer,  explaining  briefly  that  he  was 
called  to  England.  He  had  written  a  similar  line  to  Tony 
too.  No  answers  came. 

Yet  the  silence  was  full  of  questions.  The  mystery  of 
her  Egyptian  infatuation  remained  the  biggest  one  of  all 
perhaps.  But  there  were  others,  equally  insistent.  Did 
he  really  possess  her  in  a  way  that  made  earthly  compan- 
ionship unnecessary?  Had  he  lasting  joy  in  this  ideal  pos- 
session? Was  it  true  that  an  ideal  once  attained,  its 
prototype  becomes  unsatisfying?  Did  he  deceive  him- 
self? And  had  not  her  strange  experience  after  all  but 
ripened  and  completed  her  nature,  provided  something 
she  had  lacked  before,  and  blended  the  Mother  and  the 
Woman  into  the  perfect  mate  his  dream  foretold  and  his 
deep  heart's  instinct  prophesied? 

He  heard  many  answers  to  these  questions;  his  heart 
made  one,  his  reason  made  another.  It  was  the  soft  and 
urgent  Spring,  however,  with  its  perfumed  winds,  its 
singing  birds,  its  happy  message  breaking  with  tumultu- 
ous life — it  was  the  Spring  on  those  wooded  Mediter- 
ranean shores  that  whispered  the  compelling  truth.  He 
needed  her,  he  yearned.  An  ideal,  on  this  earth,  to  retain 
its  upward  lure,  must  remain — an  ideal.  Attainment  in 
the  literal  sense  destroys  it.  His  arms  were  hungry  and 
his  heart  was  desolate.  Then  one  day  he  knew  the  happy 

374 


The  Wave  375 

yet  unhappy  feeling  that  she  suffered  too.  He  felt  her 
thoughts  about  him  like  soft  birds.  .  .  . 

And  he  wrote  to  her :  "I  should  just  like  to  know  that 
you  are  well — and  happy."  He  addressed  it  to  the  Bunga- 
low. The  same  day,  chance  had  it,  he  received  word  from 
her,  forwarded  from  the  Semiramis  Hotel  in  Cairo.  She 
wrote  two  lines  only :  "Tom,  the  thing  I  had  to  tell  you 
about  was — Warsaw.  It  is  over.  As  you  said,  it  is  bet- 
ter written,  perhaps,  than  told.  Yours,  L." 

Egypt  came  flooding  through  the  open  window  as  he 
laid  the  letter  down;  the  silence,  the  desert  spaces,  the 
perfume  and  the  spell.  He  saw  one  thing  clearly  in  that 
second,  for  he  saw  it  in  a  flash.  The  secret  of  her  trouble 
that  last  day  in  Luxor  was  laid  bare — the  knowledge  that 
within  a  few  hours  she  would  be  free.  To  Tom  she 
could  not  easily  tell  it;  delicacy,  modesty,  pride  forbade. 
Her  long,  painful  duty,  faithfully  fulfilled  these  many 
years,  was  over.  Her  world  had  altered,  opened  out. 
Values,  of  course,  had  instantly  altered  too;  she  saw 
what  was  real  and  what  ephemeral;  she  looked  at  Tony 
and  she  looked  at — himself.  She  could  speak  to  Tony 
— it  was  easier,  it  did  not  matter — but  she  could  not  so 
easily  speak  to  Tom.  The  yellow  gloves  of  cotton!  .  .  . 
His  heart  leaped  within  him.  .  .  . 

He  stared  out  of  the  window  across  the  blue  Mediter- 
ranean with  its  dancing,  white-capped  waves;  he  saw 
the  white  houses  by  the  harbor ;  he  watched  the  whirling 
sea-gulls  and  tasted  the  fresh,  salt  air.  How  familiar 
it  all  was !  Of  her  whereabouts  at  that  moment  he  had 
no  knowledge;  she  might  be  on  the  steamer,  gazing  at 
the  same  dancing  waves ;  she  might  be  in  Warsaw  or  in 
London  even;  she  might  pass  by  the  windows  of  the 
Brown  Flat.  .  .  . 

He  turned  aside,  closing  the  window.  Egypt  with- 
drew, the  glamour  waned,  the  ancient  spell  seemed  lifted. 
He  thought  of  those  Theban  Hills  without  emotion. 
Yet  something  in  him  trembled;  he  yearned,  he  ached, 


376  The  Wave 

he  longed  with  all  the  longing  of  the  Spring.  He  wav- 
ered— oh,  deliciously  .  .  .  !  He  was  glad,  radiantly 
glad,  that  she  had  written.  Only — he  dared  not,  he  could 
not  answer.  .  .  . 

Yet  big  issues  are  decided  sometimes  by  paltry  and 
ignoble  influences  when  sturdier  considerations  produce 
no  effect.  It  is  the  contrast  that  furnishes  the  magic. 
It  was  contrast,  doubtless,  that  swayed  Tom's  judgment 
in  the  very  direction  he  had  decided  was  prohibited. 
His  surroundings  at  the  moment  supplied  the  contrast, 
for  these  surroundings  were  petty  and  ignoble — they 
drove  him  by  the  distress  of  sheer  disgust  into  the  world 
of  larger  values  he  had  known  with  her.  Probably,  he 
did  not  discover  this  consciously  for  himself :  the  result, 
in  any  case,  was  logical  and  obvious.  Values  changed 
suddenly  for  him,  too,  both  in  his  outlook  and  his  judg- 
ment. 

For  he  was  spending  a  few  days  with  his  widowed 
sister,  she  who  had  been  playmate  to  Lettice  years  ago ; 
and  the  conditions  of  her  life  and  mind  distressed  him. 
He  had  seen  her  name  in  a  hotel  list  of  Mentone;  he 
surprised  her  with  a  visit;  he  was  received  with  inex- 
plicable coldness.  His  tie  with  her  was  slight,  her  hus- 
band, a  clergyman,  little  to  his  liking;  he  had  not  been 
near  them  for  several  years.  The  frigid  reception,  how- 
ever, had  a  deeper  cause  he  felt ;  his  curiosity  was  piqued. 

His  sister's  chart  of  existence,  indeed,  was  too  remote 
from  his  own  for  true  sympathy  to  be  possible,  and  her 
married  life  had  not  improved  her.  They  had  drifted 
apart  without  openly  acknowledging  it.  There  was  no 
quarrel,  but  there  was  a  certain  bitterness  between  them. 
She  had  a  marked  faiblesse,  strange  in  one  securely  born, 
for  those  nominally  in  high  places  that,  while  disingenu- 
ous enough,  jarred  painfully  always  on  her  brother. 
God  was  unknown  to  her,  although  her  husband  preached 
most  familiarly  concerning  Him.  She  had  never  seen 
the  deity,  but  an  Earl  was  a  living  reality,  and  often  very 


The  Wave  377 

useful.  This  banal  weakness,  he  now  found,  had  in- 
creased in  widowhood.  Tom  hid  his  extreme  distaste — 
and  learned  the  astonishing  reason  for  her  coldness.  It 
was  Mrs.  Haughstone.  It  took  his  breath  away.  He  was 
too  amazed  to  speak. 

How  clearly  he  understood  her  conduct  now  in  Egypt ! 
For  Mrs.  Haughstone  had  spread  stories  of  the  Bunga- 
low, pernicious  stories  of  an  incredible  kind,  yet  with 
just  sufficient  basis  of  apparent  truth  to  render  them 
plausible — plausible,  that  is,  to  any  who  were  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  believe  them  against  himself.  These  stories 
by  a  roundabout  way,  gathering  in  circumstantial  detail 
as  they  traveled,  had  reached  his  sister.  She  wished  to 
believe  them,  and  she  did.  Certain  relatives,  moreover, 
of  meager  intelligence  but  highly,  placed  in  the  social 
world,  and  consequently  of  great  importance  in  her  life, 
were  remotely  affected  by  the  lurid  tales.  A  report  in 
full  is  unnecessary,  but  Mary  held  that  the  family  honor 
was  stained.  It  was  an  incredible  imbroglio.  Tom  was 
so  overwhelmed  by  this  revelation  of  the  jealous  woman's 
guile,  and  the  light  it  threw  upon  her  role  in  Egypt,  that 
he  did  not  even  trouble  to  defend  himself.  He  merely 
felt  sorry  that  his  sister  could  believe  such  tales — and 
forgave  her  without  a  single  word.  He  saw  in  it  all  an- 
other scrap  of  evidence  that  the  Wave  had  indeed  fallen, 
that  his  life  everywhere,  and  from  the  most  unlikely  di- 
rections, was  threatened,  that  all  the  most  solid  in  the 
structure  he  had  hitherto  built  up  and  leaned  upon,  was 
crumbling — and  must  crumble  utterly — in  order  that  it 
might  rise  secure  upon  fresh  foundations. 

He  faced  it,  but  faced  it  silently.  He  washed  his  hands 
of  all  concerned ;  he  had  learned  their  values  too ;  he  now 
looked  forward  instead  of  behind ;  that  is,  he  forgot,  and 
at  the  same  time  utterly — forgave. 

But  the  effect  upon  him  was  curious.  The  stagnant 
ditch  his  sister  lived  in  had  the  result  of  flinging  him 
headlong  back  into  the  larger  stream  he  had  just  left  be- 


378  The  Wave 

hind  him;  in  that  larger  world  things  happened  indeed, 
things  unpleasant,  cruel,  mysterious,  amazing — but  yet 
not  little  things.  The  scale  was  vaster,  horizons  wider, 
beauty  and  wonder  walked  hand  in  hand  with  love  and 
death.  The  contrast  shook  him;  the  trivial  blow  had 
this  immense  effect,  that  he  yearned  with  redoubled  pas- 
sion for  the  nobler  region  in  which  ideals  with  their 
prototypes,  however  broken,  existed  side  by  side. 

This  yearning,  and  the  change  involved,  remained 
subtly  concealed,  however.  He  was  not  properly  con- 
scious of  it.  Other  very  practical  considerations,  more- 
over, influenced  him;  his  money  was  getting  low;  he 
had  luckily  sublet  the  flat,  but  the  question  of  work  was 
becoming  insistent.  There  was  much  to  be  faced.  .  .  . 
A  month  had  slipped  by,  it  was  five  weeks  since  he  had 
left  Egypt.  He  decided  to  go  to  London.  He  tele- 
graphed to  the  Club  for  his  letters — he  expected  impor- 
tant ones — to  be  sent  to  Paris,  and  it  was  in  a  small  high 
room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  second-rate  hotel  across  the 
Seine,  that  he  found  them  waiting  for  him.  It  was  here, 
in  this  dingy  room,  that  he  read  the  wondrous  words. 
The  letter  had  lain  at  his  Club  three  days,  it  was  dated 
Switzerland  and  the  postmark  was  Montreux.  It  was  in 
pencil,  without  beginning  and  without  end;  his  name, 
her  signature  did  not  appear: 


Your  little  letter  has  come — yes,  I  am  well,  but  happy  I  am  not. 
I  went  to  the  Semiramis  and  found  that  you  had  sailed,  sailed 
without  even  a  good-by.  I  have  come  here,  here  to  familiar  little 
Montreux  by  the  blue  lake,  where  we  first  knew  the  Spring  to- 
gether. I  can't  say  anything,  I  can't  explain  anything.  You 
must  never  ask  me  to  explain ;  Egypt  changed  me — brought  out 
something  in  me  I  was  helpless  to  resist.  It  was  something  per- 
haps I  needed.  I  struggled — perhaps  you  can  guess  how  I 
struggled,  perhaps  you  can't.  I  have  suffered  these  past  weeks, 
I  believe  that  I  have  expiated  something.  The  power  that  drove 
me  is  exhausted,  and  that  is  all  I  know.  I  have  worked  it  out. 
I  have  come  back.  There  is  no  blame  for  others — for  any  one; 
I  can't  explain.  Your  little  letter  has  come,  and  so  I  write.  Help 


The  Wave  379 

me,  oh,  help  me  in  years  to  find  my  respect  again,  and  try  to  love 
the  woman  you  once  knew — knew  here  in  Montreux  beside  the 
lake,  long  ago  in  our  childhood  days,  further  back  still,  perhaps, 
though  where  I  do  not  know.  And,  Tom — tell  me  how  you  are. 
I  must  know  that.  Please  write  and  tell  me  that.  I  can  bear  it 
no  longer.  If  anything  happened  to  you  I  should  just  turn  over 
and  die.  You  have  been  true  and  very  big,  oh,  so  true  and  big. 
I  see  it  now.  . 


Tom  did  not  answer.  He  took  the  night  train.  He 
was  just  in  time  to  catch  the  Simplon  Express  from  the 
Gare  de  Lyon.  He  reached  Montreux  at  seven  o'clock, 
when  the  June  sun  was  already  high  above  the  Dent  du 
Midi  and  the  lake  a  sheet  of  sparkling  blue.  He  went 
to  his  old  hotel.  He  saw  the  swans  floating  like  bundles 
of  dry  paper,  he  saw  the  whirling  sea-gulls,  he  obtained 
his  former  room.  And  spring  was  just  melting  into  full- 
blown summer  upon  the  encircling  mountains. 

It  was  still  early  when  he  had  bathed  and  breakfasted, 
too  early  for  visitors  to  be  abroad,  too  early  to  search. 
.  .  .  He  could  settle  to  nothing ;  he  filled  the  time  as  best 
he  could ;  he  smoked  and  read  an  English  newspaper  that 
was  several  days  old  at  least.  His  eyes  took  in  the  lines, 
but  his  mind  did  not  take  in  the  sense — until  a  familiar 
name  caught  his  attention  and  made  him  keenly  alert. 
The  name  was  Anthony  Winslowe.  He  remembered  sud- 
denly that  Tony  had  never  replied  to  his  letter.  .  .  .  The 
paragraph  concerning  his  cousin,  however,  dealt  with  an- 
other matter  that  sent  the  blood  flaming  to  his  cheeks. 
He  was  defendant  in  the  breach  of  promise  suit  brought 
by  a  notorious  London  actress,  then  playing  in  a  popular 
revue.  The  case  had  opened;  the  letters  were  already 
produced  in  court — and  read.  The  print  danced  before 
his  eyes.  The  letters  were  dated  last  October  and  No- 
vember, just  before  Tony  had  come  out  to  Egypt,  and 
with  crimson  face  Tom  read  them.  It  was  more  than 
distressing,  it  was  afflicting — the  letters  tore  an  estab- 
lished reputation  into  a  thousand  pieces.  He  could  not 


380  The  Wave 

finish  the  report;  he  only  prayed  that  another  had  not 
seen  it.  ... 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  went  out  and  joined  the 
throng  of  people  sunning  themselves  on  the  walk  beside 
the  lake.  The  air  was  sweet  and  fresh,  there  were  sail- 
ing-boats upon  the  water,  the  blue  mountains  lifted  their 
dazzling  snow  far,  far  into  the  summer  sky.  He  leaned 
over  the  rail  and  watched  the  myriads  of  tiny  fishes,  he 
watched  the  swans,  he  saw  the  dim  line  of  the  Jura  hills 
in  the  hazy  distance,  he  heard  the  muffled  beat  of  a  steam- 
er's paddle-wheels  a  long  way  off.  And  then,  abruptly, 
he  was  aware  that  some  one  touched  him;  a  hand  in  a 
long  white  glove  was  on  his  arm;  there  was  a  subtle 
perfume ;  two  dark  eyes  looked  into  his ;  and  he  heard  a 
low  familiar  voice: 

"One  day  we  shall  find  each  other  in  a  crowd." 

Tom  was  amazingly  inarticulate.  He  just  turned  and 
looked  down  at  her,  moving  a  few  inches  closer  as  he  did 
so.  She  wore  a  black  boa;  the  fur  touched  his  cheek. 

"You  have  come  back/'  he  said. 

There  was  a  new  wonder  in  her  face,  a  soft  new 
beauty.  The  woman  in  her  glowed.  .  .  .  He  saw  the 
suffering  plainly  too. 

"We  have  both  found  out,"  she  said  very  low,  "found 
out  what  we  are  to  one  another." 

Tom's  supply  of  words  failed  completely  then.  He 
looked  at  her — looked  all  the  language  in  the  world.  And 
she  understood.  She  lowered  her  eyes.  "I  feel  shy,"  he 
thought  he  heard.  It  was  murmured  only.  The  next 
minute  she  raised  her  eyes  again  to  his.  He  saw  them 
dark  and  beautiful,  tender  as  his  mother's,  true  and  faith- 
ful, as  in  his  boyhood's  dream  of  years  ago.  But  they 
were  now  a  woman's  eyes. 

"I  never  really  left  you,  Tom  .  .  ."  she  said  with 
absolute  conviction.  "I  never  could.  I  went  aside  .  .  . 
to  fetch  something — to  give  to  you.  That  was  all !" 

THE  END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JUiv       '80 

m    5  1980REC'D 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


AT  WRIT 


PR6003.L3W35 


3  2106  00197  1016 


